3   1822  01308  0817 


S3      6 

?  *L"  ^i^W  *^.  rtta>     ^^k^ 

ics^ 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  01  EGO 


\ 


3   1822  01308  0817 


-PS 


BY    MYRTLE    REED 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 

LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 

THE  SPINSTER  BOOK 

LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE 

PICKABACK  SONGS 

THE  SHADOW  OF  VICTORY 

THE  MASTER'S  VIOLIN 

THE  BOOK  OF  CLEVER  BEASTS 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  JACK-O'-LANTERN 

A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN 

LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  LITERARY  MEN 

FLOWER  OF  THE  DUSK 

OLD  ROSE  AND  SILVER 

SONNETS  TO  A  LOVER 

MASTER  OF  THE  VINEYARD 

A  WEAVER  OF  DREAMS 


A 


''  $    7 
•-  ••  .••. 


A  WEAVER  OP 
DREAMS 


-u- 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  and  London 
Ube  IRnf  cfeerbocfeer  press 

1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 

BY 

MYRTLE  REED  McCULLOUGH 


ttbe  Imfcfcet  bocfter  press,  Hew  ffiort 


iii 

Contents 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I  —  ROSE  LEAVES 

I 

Contents 

II  —  ALGERNON    .... 

.              W 

Ill  —  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONTENT 

.            32 

IV  —  MARKED  PASSAGES 

.             46 

V  —  PILLOWS      .... 

.            62 

VI  —  THE  HOUSE  OF  HEARTS 

•      77 

VII—  "WOMAN'S  WORK"     . 

•      93 

VIII  —  THE  LURE  OF  THE  CITY 

.     no 

IX  —  BLUE  STOCKINGS   . 

.     125 

X  —  A  WOMAN'S  HAIR 

.     140 

XI  —  PARLIAMENTARY  LAW    . 

•     155 

XII  —  MIDSUMMER  MADNESS    . 

.     172 

XIII—  THE  RIGHT  WAY  . 

.     1  88 

XIV—  THE  ONE  WOMAN 

.     203 

XV  —  THE  DOCUMENTS  IN  EVIDENCE 

.     219 

IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

Content*           XVI — A  CHALLENGE      ....  234 

XVII — FAREWELLS        ....  249 

XVIII — THE  ASHES  OF  DESIRE         .        .  266 

XIX — THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS        .  282 

XX — CLOTH  OF  GOLD         .        .        .  298 

XXI — ADJUSTMENTS     .        .        .        .  313 

XXII — "  FROM  THE  UNVARYING  STAR  "  .  328 
XXIII— "Gossip"        .        .        .        -543 

XXIV — THE  SUNSET  HOUR    .        .        .  359 


a  Weaver  of  Breams 


THE  road  was  hot  and  dusty,  but,  neverthe 
less,  it  allured.  Beginning  in  the  hope 
less  ugliness  of  a  small  town's  main  street,  it 
turned  a  corner  at  the  postoffice  and  wandered 
forth,  lazily,  at  its  own  capricious  will.  It 
widened  for  a  moment  at  a  group  of  over 
hanging  willows,  as  though  to  rest  in  the  fra 
grant  shade,  paused  where  the  little  stream 
crooned  in  the  grass,  went  beside  it  for  a  time, 
then  crossed  it  upon  a  wooden  bridge,  and 
climbed  upward  toward  the  cool  green  hills. 

In  its  nature  the  road  was  opposed  to  things 
that  hurried.  To  the  care-free  foot  of  the 
traveller  who  had  plenty  of  time,  it  yielded  a 
gentle  acceptance  and  even  gave  some  sort 
of  sympathetic  response.  A  swift  step  was 
annoying.  A  dog  that  ran  would  find  himself 
very  thirsty  by  the  time  he  reached  the  brook, 
a  horse  and  cart  would  stir  up  definite  resent 
ment,  and  the  daring  motor  car  that  intruded 
upon  the  road  with  discordant  wheezes  would 
be  swiftly  mantled  and  choked  by  revengeful 
dust. 


Ube 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Bt  tbe 

ICUUowa 


Turning  aside  from  the  general  direction  of 
traffic,  the  road  narrowed  as  it  approached 
solitude.  Dust  gave  way  to  firm  brown  earth, 
and  ferns  grew  thickly  upon  both  sides  of  it, 
where,  in  the  Spring,  clusters  of  violets  turned 
eyes  of  heavenly  blue  toward  shining  skies. 
Wild  roses  ran  riot  among  the  ferns,  spending 
prodigally  of  their  divine  incense  when  the 
pink-and-white  censers  swung  in  the  passing 
breeze.  The  merest  rills  of  water  murmured 
along  the  road;  children  of  deep  pools  in  the 
hills,  answering  the  call  of  another  Pied  Piper 
that  eventually  would  lure  them  to  the  sea. 

A  flock  of  sheep  grazed  upon  the  upland 
pastures,  just  below  the  pines,  kept  within 
bounds  by  a  rail  fence  that  straggled  half 
heartedly  across  the  hill  at  a  perilous  slant. 
A  cloud  overhung  the  hill,  luminous  in  the  sun 
— an  argosy  of  silver  upon  celestial  seas  of 
turquoise,  cleared  for  a  port  unknown. 

Where  the  road  paused  at  the  willows,  a 
girl  stopped,  too.  She  was  warm,  breathless, 
and  impatient  of  her  burden.  Under  one 
arm  was  a  fat,  wriggling  puppy,  and  in  that 
same  hand  she  tried  to  hold  a  white  linen 
parasol  over  her  head;  the  other  arm  clasped  a 
loaf  of  bread  which  kept  slipping  out  of  the 
paper,  and  in  the  other  hand  was  what  re 
mained  of  a  blue  pitcher  full  of  cream. 

Spots  and  streaks  down  the  front  of  her  pink 
gingham  gown  bore  eloquent  testimony  as  to 


U  1RC8ta 

what  had  happened  since  she  left  the  post- 
office.  The  morning  mail,  tied  insecurely  into 
a  bundle,  dangled  from  the  ribs  of  her  open 
parasol  and  occasionally  rumpled  her  hair. 
Carefully  she  set  down  the  cream,  laid  the 
bread  beside  it,  and,  having  at  last  a  free  hand 
for  the  purpose,  administered  a  resounding 
slap  to  the  puppy. 

"You  little  beast,"  said  Margery,  as  the 
open  parasol  fell  into  the  road.  "What  do 
you  suppose  ever  possessed  me  to  take  you?" 

The  puppy  whined  forgivingly  in  answer 
and  made  a  lunge  toward  the  cream.  "You 
shan't,"  Margery  continued,  sternly.  "  You  're 
not  travelling  with  a  dining-car.  You  'II  wait 
till  we  get  home — if  we  ever  do." 

Hunger  and  thirst  incarnate  were  struggling 
helplessly  in  her  strong  young  arms.  "We'll 
sit  down,"  she  went  on,  determinedly,  "and 
talk  things  over  a  bit.  Just  because  I  took 
you  away  from  a  crowd  of  boys  who  were 
abusing  you  is  no  sign  that  I  intend  to  keep 
you.  You're  an  abominable  little  beast,  and 
I  don't  want  you!" 

The  puppy  lifted  pained.,  brown  .eyes  to 
Margery's  flushed  face,  whined,  and  licked 
her  hand.  "I  don't  doubt  you  mean  well," 
she  said,  wiping  her  hand  upon  her  stained 
gown,  "  but  you  '11  have  to  behave  yourself 
if  you  have  the  faintest  desire  to  live  with  rne. 
Had  n't  I  enough  to  carry,  with  the  mail,  and 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


plans 


the  bread  and  the  cream  Eliza  wants  for  to 


night's  dessert,  without  taking  you  home 
too?  I  had  it  all  very  carefully  planned. 
Parasol  in  right  hand,  mail  and  bread  under 
right  arm,  pitcher  of  cream  in  left  hand,  skirts 
to  drag  in  the  dust  unhindered.  And  see 
what  you  've  done ! 

"Too  foolish  to  follow,  too  little  to  walk 
very  far,  even  if  you  wanted  to,  no  rope  to  lead 
you  with,  and  possessed  by  a  mad  longing 
for  cream!  How  would  you  get  it,  anyway? 
I  'd  have  to  break  the  pitcher  before  I  could 
get  you  out  if  you  ever  got  your  head  into  it. 
I  wonder  you  have  n't  done  it  before  now.  I 
can't  leave  you  here,  because  you  would  n't 
be  here  when  I  got  back.  I  can't  leave  any 
thing  else  here,  for  the  same  reason,  and, 
besides,  it 's  too  far  to  come." 

A  meadow-lark  circled  through  the  blue 
spaces  above  the  road  and  showered  golden 
notes  down  upon  Margery  as  he  flew.  A 
bumble-bee,  his  wings  dusty  with  pollen, 
crossed  the  road  in  search  of  a  wild  rose  with 
the  honey  still  lying  at  its  heart.  A  cricket 
fiddled  cheerily  in  the  grass  and  an  impertinent 
yellow  butterfly  alighted  upon  the  edge  of  the 
cream  pitcher. 

"Go  on,"  said  Margery,  resignedly;  "get 
into  it  if  you  want  to.  Do  you  care  for  butter 
flies  in  your  cream,  Algernon?"  she  continued, 
to  the  squirming  puppy.  "  I  think  I  '11  name 


you  Algernon,  because  I  hate  it  worse  'n  any 
name  I  know.  If  I  only  had  a  rope,  or  any 
thing  to  make  a  rope  of,  or  a  bag,  or  anything 
I  could  make  a  bag  of 

"Might  tie  you  up  in  my  petticoat,  I  sup 
pose.  You  'd  tear  the  lace,  and  you  'd  be 
uncomfortable,  and  you  'd  howl,  but  you  'd 
come,  Algernon — oh,  yes,  you'd  come!  Of 
course  it  is  n't  nice  for  a  girl  to  walk  along  the 
highways  in  broad  daylight  without  a  petti 
coat,  but  you  don't  care  about  that — you 
don't  care  about  anything  but  cream.  Great 
goodness,  there's  an  automobile!" 

Scrambling  to  her  feet,  Margery  rescued  her 
parasol  from  the  path  of  the  approaching 
monster,  took  the  cream  pitcher  and  the 
bread,  and  stepped  back  behind  the  willows. 
The  car  purred  past,  in  a  cloud  of  dust  which 
choked  her  and  made  even  Algernon  sniff  a 
little. 

"Come  on,"  she  said,  grimly,  "we  '11  resume 
our  joyous  journey."  A  readjustment  made 
things  easier.  She  closed  the  parasol,  with  the 
mail  inside  of  it,  tucked  it  under  her  left  arm, 
with  th'e  bread,  took  the  cream  pitcher  in  her 
left  hand,  and,  clasping  Algernon  firmly  with 
her  right  arm,  started  toward  home. 

But,  where  the  road  divided,  she  hesitated 
and  was  lost.  She  should  have  taken  the 
path  that  led  along  the  river-bank,  but,  like 
the  road  itself,  she  longed  for  the  cool  hills. 


TOUbere 
the  1Roat> 

EHvlces 


Meaver  of  Breams 


of  3oy 


A  clump  of  overhanging  elder,  starry  with 
sweet  blossoms,  offered  a  safe  hiding-place  for 
whatever  she  might  choose  to  leave.  She 
stooped,  concealed  a  part  of  her  awkward 
load,  and,  with  only  the  parasol  and  puppy, 
followed  the  road  that  beckoned  her  upward, 
where  the  sheep  grazed  and  the  pines  breathed 
spicy  fragrances  afar. 

Youth  and  the  joy  of  living  sang  in  her 
blood;  the  world  was  as  one  of  the  golden 
apples  at  Atalanta's  feet.  Her  annoyance  was 
swiftly  forgotten  in  the  radiance  of  a  morning 
that  had  not  yet  lost  the  first  freshness,  though 
it  was  almost  noon.  The  stained  gown  was 
no  longer  among  the  things  that  mattered,  and 
the  squirming  Algernon  took  on,  as  by  magic, 
beauty,  charm,  and  desirability. 

"You  are  a  dear,"  she  whispered,  hugging 
him  closer,  "  and  you  're  my  little  doggie  for 
keeps,  so  you  are.  I  won't  give  you  away,  and 
horrid  boys  shan't  tease  you,  and  you  shall  have 
three  blue  pitchers  full  of  cream  every  day, 
and  a  cushion  to  sleep  on,  and  perhaps  even  a 
little  house,  all  of  your  own.  Want  to  walk?" 

Clumsily,  Algernon  followed  in  the  wake  of 
the  adorable  being  in  pink  who  had  rescued 
him  from  the  cruel  boys  and  who  still  smelled 
deliciously  of  cream.  He  continually  fell  down, 
but  she  never  stopped  to  pick  him  up,  even 
though  he  whined.  It  was  all  he  could  do 
to  keep  pace  with  the  small  feet  that  were 


always   just   ahead  of  him,  no    matter  how      n 
bravely  he  strove  onward.    The  white  para 
sol   flourished   fantastically,   striking   him    in 
the    eye    once    when    he    happened    to    be 
near. 

On  they  went,  up  the  hill.  The  road  was 
but  the  merest  path  now.  Sometimes  it  lost 
itself,  for  a  moment,  in  a  group  of  trees,  but 
always  it  emerged  safely  on  the  other  side. 
A  thousand  enticing  scents  of  bird  and  beast 
came  to  Algernon  as  he  struggled  along  the 
trail,  but  he  dared  not  stop. 

Presently  they  reached  the  fence  and 
Margery  paused,  leaning  upon  it  to  rest. 
Algernon,  having  the  habit  of  motion  firmly 
fixed  upon  him,  went  straight  on  through  the 
bars  until  he  observed  that  he  had  nothing  to 
follow,  then  he  sat  down  to  rest — a  very  tired 
little  dog  with  a  scarlet  tongue  hanging  out, 
panting  for  breath. 

"You  can  walk  now,"  Margery  remarked, 
scornfully,  "  and  follow  as  though  you  had  been 
trained  to  it.  Why  could  n't  you  have  done 
it  when  I  had  my  arms  full  without  you? 
Now  that  I  have  only  a  parasol,  you  're  ready 
and  willing  to  walk." 

Algernon  wagged  his  tail  politely,  lay  down 
in  the  soft  grass,  and  went  to  sleep. 

Far  across  the  valley,  the  river  crept  sleepily 
toward  the  ultimate  sea.  It  rose  in  a  tiny 
lake,  hidden  among  the  hills,  and,  before  long, 


H  Weaver  of  5>reams 


merged  itself  with  another  lake,  bordered  by 
lily-pads  and  surrounded  by  a  marsh.  Margery 
could  not  see  the  source  of  the  stream,  but  the 
deep  pool  of  sapphire,  surrounded  by  misty 
green,  sent  gleaming  arrows  of  impalpable 
silver  even  up  to  the  pines. 

High  noon  blazed  in  the  zenith;  the  sheep 
grazed  peacefully  upon  the  hillside.  Algernon, 
with  the  weariness  of  the  ages  upon  him,  was 
still  sound  asleep.  She  called  to  him,  but  he 
did  not  answer.  Then  she  leaned  through  the 
bars  to  poke  him  with  her  parasol,  but  he  was 
out  of  reach. 

"Little  beast,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
suppose  I  '11  have  to  climb  the  fence!" 

She  was  unused  to  fences,  most  of  her  life 
having  been  spent  in  cities,  but  she  got  over, 
awkwardly  enough,  gathered  up  the  sleeping 
puppy,  and  dumped  him  unceremoniously 
upon  the  proper  side  of  the  fence. 

"The  next  thing,"  she  resumed,  to  herself, 
"  is  to  get  back.  I  suppose  it 's  easier  to  say 
than  it  is  to  do — most  things  are." 

She  climbed  to  the  top,  jumped — and  caught 
her  skirts  on  the  projecting  end  of  the  highest 
rail.  Her  feet  were  on  the  ground,  but  she 
was  held  fast,  unable  even  to  turn.  .,  De 
sperately,  she  tried  to  wrench  herself  free,  to 
tear  her  gown,  to  climb  out  of  it — anything. 
But  it  buttoned  down  the  back,  was  made  of 
firm  and  excellent  material,  and,  as  far  as  her 


TRose^Xeaves 


efforts  were  concerned,  she  was  fastened  to  the 

r  . 

fence  permanently. 

She  laughed,  hysterically,  then  the  tears 
came.  It  was  impossible  that  she  should  be 
hung  to  a  rail  fence  upon  a  hill .  "  Ridiculous ! " 
she  breathed.  "Absurd!  Preposterous!"  Her 
parasol,  leaning  against  the  fence,  was  barely 
within  her  reach.  She  got  it,  tried  to  lift  her 
skirts  from  the  rail  by  poking  it  back  through 
the  bars,  and  failed.  She  leaned  back  against 
the  fence  with  all  her  might,  but  accomplished 
nothing. 

An  hour  or  more  passed.  She  wept,  raged 
vainly  against  Algernon,  who  still  slept  peace 
fully  at  her  feet,  though  fortunately  beyond 
her  angry  reach — and  eagerly  watched  the 
road  below  for  some  sign  of  life. 

No  one  went  by.  Down  under  the  elder- 
bush  the  bread  was  drying  up  and  the  cream 
was  probably  sour.  There  was  no  one  to  look 
for  her  or  become  alarmed  about  her  before 
dark.  Even  though  she  should  wave  her 
parasol  frantically,  anyone  who  saw  it  might 
not  interpret  it  as  a  signal  of  distress. 

The  shadows  lengthened.  Her  feet  were 
numb  and  her  back  ached  wretchedly.  Alger 
non  yawned,  stretched  himself,  and  came 
humbly  to  Margery,  wagging  his  insignificant 
tail. 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  speak  to  me!"  she  whis 
pered,  hoarsely.  "You  beast,  you  brute,  you 


tEefcfous 
Waiting 


10 

animal,  you  abominable —  She  choked  back 
Crimson  a  sob,  and  Algernon,  after  the  manner  of  his 
wild  ancestors  making  beds  for  themselves  in 
the  long  grass,  turned  around  several  times, 
yawned  capaciously,  stretched  himself  again, 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

Far  down  upon  the  road  was  a  gleam  of 
crimson.  Margery  started  forward,  her  mouth 
dry  and  her  body  trembling.  It  was — no,  it 
could  n't  be — yes,  it  was  a  parasol!  A  jaunty 
red  parasol  bobbing  along  serenely  on  that 
same  dusty  road! 

Margery  screamed — but  only  succeeded  in 
frightening  Algernon.  A  white  gown  showed 
itself  below  the  parasol  now.  She  called  again, 
not  a  harsh  "Help!"  full  of  consonants  that 
refused  to  carry,  but  a  shrill,  sweet  "Halloo!" 
with  the  final  vowel  long  drawn  out. 

The  parasol  hesitated,  then  stopped.  Mar 
gery  put  all  her  remaining  strength  into  one 
last  cry,  then  waved  her  own  parasol.  The 
woman  below  did  not  move.  She  waved  again 
but  could  not  call.  Algernon,  deeply  stirred 
by  the  adjacent  emotion,  scampered  about 
madly,  and,  in  trepidation  and  excitement, 
produced  his  first  bark. 

"Oh,"  breathed  Margery,  tremulously, 
"thank  Heaven!" 

The  red  parasol  had  turned  where  the  road 
divided  and  was  on  its  way  toward  her.  Shak 
ing  violently,  she  leaned  against  the  fence  and 


waited.    The  woman  in  white  came  quickly,      jrecat 
with  a  long,  free  stride  that  suggested  boyish 
ness  subtly  transmuted  into  femininity. 

Mist  obscured  Margery's  vision.  She  looked 
up,  her  blue  eyes  swimming,  into  a  serene  and 
tender  face. 

"  Poor  child,"  said  a  deep  voice,  exquisitely 
modulated.  "Lean  back  as  far  as  you  can. 
I  '11  have  to  help  you  out  of  your  gown/' 

The  strong  white  hands  were  already  busy 
with  buttons  and  hooks.  "Now,  then — 
stoop  a  little,  turn  this  arm,  so — now  this. 
Wait  a  minute.  Do  you  mind  if  I  tear  your 
petticoat?  Here — lean  on  me." 

Pale  and  almost  disrobed,  but  free  at  last, 
Margery  sank  into  a  pathetic  little  heap  at  the 
foot  of  the  fence.  "  I  did  n't  have  to  tear  it," 
the  lovely  voice  was  saying.  "Let  me  help 
you  into  your  clothes  again,  then  you  can  sit 
down  and  rest.  How  long  have  you  been 
here?" 

"All  day,  I  guess,"  sobbed  Margery.  "No, 
I  have  n't  either.  It  must  have  been  about 
noon." 

"It's  only  half-past  two  now,"  said  the 
older  woman,  "but  it  must  have  seemed  ages. 
Cry,  if  you  want  to — it  '11  do  you  good.  Put 
your  head  on  my  shoulder,  so.  I  'm  Judith 
Sylvester.  Everyone  who  wants  to  cry  comes 
to  me  to  do  it." 

"  I  'm     Margery    Gordon,"     returned    the 


12 


B  Meaner  ot  Dreams 


rescued  one,  with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob. 

Jfcfen&s       ....  .  fe,  .  ,      ,. 

I  ve  come  to  spend  the  summer  with  Mr. 
Chandler.  He  was  a  friend  of  my  father's." 

"Yes,"  said  Judith,  softly.  "I  heard  you 
were  coming." 

"  Father  died,"  continued  Margery,  choking 
on  the  words,  "just  a  month  ago.  He  told  me 
to  come  here.  He  said  Mr.  Chandler  would 
teach  me  to  live." 

"  He  will — he 's  taught  me." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  it 's  queer  that  I  don't 
wear  mourning.  Everybody  said  I  was  un 
natural,  and  criticised  me  for  it,  but  I  'd 
promised  Father.  He  said  it  was  all  right  for 
people  to  feel  sorry  and  to  show  that  they  did, 
but  they  had  no  right  to  inflict  their  gloom  upon 
other  people.  And  he  said  he  could  n't  under 
stand  why  people  should  take  it  off  at  the  end 
of  a  year  or  so  unless  they  meant  that  they 
were  n't  sorry  any  more,  and  he  wanted  me  to 
be  happy,  but  not  to  forget." 

"I  understand.    Aren't  you  hungry?" 

"  Yes — I  think  so.  There  's  a  loaf  of  bread 
and  a  pitcher  of  cream  down  under  the  elder- 
bush.  I  left  it  there  when  I  came  up/' 

"Shall  I  bring  it  to  you?" 

"No,  indeed!  I  'm  all  right — only  tired, 
and  frightened,  and  starved." 

They  went  down  together,  arm  in  arm,  with 
Algernon,  fully  rested,  but  very  hungry, 
following  obediently.  Margery  paused,  once 


13 


in  a  while,  to  pick  a  wild  rose,  until  she  had  a     &  n 
handful  of  them,  which  she  thrust  into  her  belt. 
When  they  came  to  the  elder-bush,  she  filled 
her  pink  palm  from  the  pitcher,  fed  the  puppy 
first,  then  finished  the  cream  herself. 

"We  '11  remove  the  stains  next,"  said  Judith, 
practically.  She  led  Margery  to  the  river, 
dipped  her  handkerchief  into  the  cold  water 
and  scrubbed  industriously  until  the  pink 
gingham  was  clean  again.  Margery  bathed 
her  tear-stained  face,  smoothed  her  rumpled 
locks,  and  sat  down  upon  the  grassy  bank  in 
the  sun  to  dry  her  gown.  Judith  sat  near  her, 
in  the  shade  of  a  drooping  willow  that  now  and 
then  dropped  tiny  leaves  upon  the  surface  of 
the  stream,  to  go,  with  the  current,  into  the 
lake  below. 

Judith  took  a  red  rose  out  of  her  dark  hair, 
and,  one  by  one,  cast  the  petals  upon  the  water. 
A  wistful  smile  hovered  about  the  corners  of 
her  mouth;  the  velvety  depths  of  her  eyes  were 
alight  with  mystery. 

"Why?"  asked  Margery,  curiously. 

"To  summon  the  Prince,  of  course,"  laughed 
Judith.  "Don't  you  remember  the  old  fairy 
tale?  Send  yours  downstream,  too  —  a  wish 
with  every  petal." 

"The  same  wish?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like.     I  have  only  one." 

Margery  took  the  wild  roses  from  her  belt, 
and,  one  at  a  time,  scattered  the  petals  upon 


J4 


TKHaftfng 
for  tbe 
prince 


the  water.  Slowly  they  drifted  out  of  sight. 
"  I  don't  see  the  Prince,"  she  observed,  after  a 
pause. 

"Give  him  time.  The  days  of  magic  are  not 
over  yet." 

Long  shadows  lay  upon  the  valley  and  the 
silver  ripples  deepened  into  gold.  "  He 's 
late,"  said  Margery,  restlessly,  "and  I  'II  have 
to  get  more  cream  and  a  fresh  loaf  of  bread 
before  I  can  go  home." 

"Aren't  you  too  tired?    Shan't  I  go?" 

"No,  but  I  do  wish  you  'd  keep  Algernon— 
until  to-morrow." 

"Keep— whom?" 

"The  puppy.  I  can't  get  him  home  with  a 
parasol  and  the  other  things  I  have  to  carry. 
Do  you  live  near  here?" 

"Right  over  there,  in  a  big  white  house. 
You  can't  miss  it." 

Judith  indicated  the  region  at  the  left  of  the 
river  by  a  graceful  inclination  of  her  head. 
"  If  you  get  lost,  ask  for  Miss  Bancroft's. 
She  's  my  aunt — we  live  together." 

"  I  need  n't  try  to  say  how  much  I  thank 
you,"  said  Margery.  "  It 's  useless." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  thank  me.  I  'm  only 
sorry  I  did  n't  find  you  sooner.  Good-bye 
until  to-morrow." 

"  Good-bye.    Shall  you  wait  for  the  Prince?  " 

"  Yes,  if  he  is  n't  too  long  in  coming.  Here, 
doggie,  you  're  to  stay  with  me." 


•  The  pink  gown  and  white  parasol  moved 
slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  village.  Algernon, 
fain  to  follow,  lifted  his  voice  shrilly,  but  the 
faithless  one  did  not  turn  back.  Judith  held 
the  puppy  with  difficulty  while  she  untied  a 
long  crimson  tie  of  crepe  which  was  knotted 
beneath  her  low  collar.  Presently  she  had  one 
end  around  Algernon's  neck  and  the  other 
tied  to  a  diminutive  willow  sapling  back  a 
little  way  from  the  shore.  "There,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  he  's  anchored,  if  the  thing  will 
hold  him." 

Unaccustomed  to  restraint,  Algernon  la 
mented  loudly,  but  Judith  did  not  heed  him. 
Her  ears  were  strained  to  catch  another  sound. 
Smiling,  with  her  head  inclined  toward  the 
water,  she  waited,  with  the  prescience  of  a 
woman  in  love. 

When  the  dog  paused  for  a  moment  to  rest, 
she  heard  the  murmur  of  a  paddle  in  the  water 
and  caught  her  breath  quickly.  Almost  im 
mediately  a  brown  canoe  appeared  at  the  bend 
in  the  river,  with  a  smiling  young  man  in  white 
flannels  kneeling  on  a  crimson  cushion  in  the 
stern.  On  the  seat  in  front  of  him  was  a  hand 
ful  of  wet  rose-petals,  crimson  and  pink. 

"How  did  you  know?"  he  called,  when  he 
came  within  speaking  distance. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  echoed,  as  he 
turned  the  canoe  toward  shore. 

"  Because  those  red  roses  grow  only  in  Miss 


H  Canoe 
Bppcara 


16 


H  Weaver  of  H>reams 


Ube 

pupps'0 
flDaster 


Bancroft's  garden.  Where  did  the  pink  ones 
come  from?" 

Before  she  could  answer,  he  had  sprung 
ashore  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "Sweet," 
he  breathed,  as  he  lifted  her  face  to  his,  "  I  've 
longed  all  day  for  the  sight  of  you.  It's 
seemed  as  though  evening  would  never  come." 

"  It  has  n't — yet,"  murmured  Judith. 

"No,  but  you  have." 

Then  Algernon,  having  heard  and  compre 
hended  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice,  leaped 
forward,  uprooting  the  slender  sapling  to  which 
he  was  tied,  and  dragging  it,  by  his  strand  of 
crimson  crepe,  to  the  one  god-like  human  who 
commanded  his  undying  allegiance.  With 
soft  whinings  and  timorous  barks,  he  greeted 
his  master — who  only  held  Judith  more  closely 
in  his  arms. 

"Princess!"  he  said.  "Oh,  Woman  of 
Wonder,  where  did  you  find  my  pup?" 


II 

Hloernon 

'""THE  big  white  house  was  square  and  un- 
1  compromising  in  outline,  but  a  wide 
porch  surrounded  it  —  two  wide  porches, 
rather,  since  the  upper  story  was  similarly 
favoured.  Miss  Cynthia  was  wont  to  observe 
that  the  house  was  an  island  bounded  by  an 
unlimited  sea  of  porch,  and  to  wish  vainly  for  a 
real  sea  to  wash  over  it  at  high  tide,  that  it 
might  be  kept  clean. 

"  If  Grandfather  had  been  gifted  with  im 
agination,"  she  was  saying,  "he'd  have  made 
the  house  long  and  narrow  and  all  the  windows 
round.  Then  we  could  have  thought  we  were 
living  on  an  ocean-liner,  except  that  it  would 
be  so  cheap  and  so  comfortable  that  the  illusion 
would  be  in  danger." 

From  the  rear  of  the  house  came  the  shrill 
yelpings  of  an  unhappy  puppy.  "What  is 
that?"  demanded  Miss  Cynthia.  "Do  I  hear 
something?" 

"It's  part  of  your  longed-for  illusion, 
Aunty,"  replied  Judith,  with  a  smile.  "It's 
the  moaning  of  the  tied." 


Ube  DBffl 
TObite 
"fcouse 


18 


"Are  we  possessed  by  a  dog?" 

"Temporarily,  it  seems.  I  did  n't  have 
time  to  finish  my  story  last  night." 

"So  I  observed.  When  Carter's  head  ap 
peared  above  the  hedge,  you  left  a  young 
girl  in  pink  hanging  to  a  rail  fence  by  her 
petticoats  and  ran  down  to  meet  him." 

"  I  did  n't  want  to  keep  him  waiting," 
Judith  apologised,  with  a  blush. 

"An  evidence  of  immaturity,  my  dear,  and, 
if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  of  inexperience. 
Men  love  what  they  have  to  wait  for.  What 
happened  to  the  girl  on  the  fence?" 

"  I  had  to  unfasten  her  gown  and  help  her 
out  of  it.  She —  There  's  Carter,  now!" 

"Sit  down,"  commanded  Miss  Cynthia, 
crisply.  "After  having  left  her  hanging  on  the 
fence  all  night,  you  have  n't  the  heart  to  let 
her  stand  on  the  hill  all  the  afternoon  in  her 
combinations,  have  you?  It's  not  only  un 
kind,  but  it 's  indecent." 

"Well,"  continued  Judith,  unwillingly,  "I 
got  her  out  of  her  clothes,  and  then  helped  her 
into  them  again,  and  we  came  down  the  hill 
together.  She  had  the  puppy  with  her,  and  a 
parasol,  and  after  she  drank  the  cream,  she  had 
to  go  to  get  more — it  was  for  dessert,  or  some 
thing — and  she  asked  me  to  keep  the  dog  until  to 
day,  and  so  I  did.  It  seems  he  belongs  to  Carter." 

"How  did  she  get  him?  No,  I  don't  mean 
Carter — I  mean  the  dog." 


"  I  did  n't  have  time  to  ask.  I  suppose  she 
found  him  or  someone  who  stole  him  gave 
him  to  her  or  sold  him  to  her.  Come  right  up, 
dear/'  she  called,  leaning  over  the  balcony. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  mimicked  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a 
wicked  flash  in  her  dark  eyes;  "come  right  up. 
I  love  to  hear  your  fairy-like  tread  on  this  frail 
veranda." 

The  long,  empty  spaces  echoed  back  the 
young  man's  ringing  laugh.  He  kissed  Judith, 
with  the  complacency  of  an  accepted  lover, 
then  bent  over  Miss  Cynthia's  chair.  "You 
shall  pay  the  penalty  for  that.  Kiss  your 
nephew  that  is  to  be!" 

"  I  won't,"  she  answered,  tartly.  "  Please 
go  over  there  and  sit  down.  The  girl  has  her 
clothes  on,  now,  but  I  want  to  know  how  she 
came  to  drink  the  cream." 

"She  was  hungry,"  laughed  Judith.  "She 
had  been  hanging  on  the  fence  for  hours,  and 
the  cream  was  in  a  blue  pitcher  under  the 
elder-bush." 

"How  did  it  get  there?    Fairies?" 

"  You  '11  have  to  ask  her.  She  said  she  'd 
come  over  to-day  and  get  the  dog." 

"  Right  here,"  interposed  Carter,  "  is  where  I 
come  into  the  story.  She  's  not  only  not  going 
to  have  my  dog,  but  she  '11  have  to  explain  how 
she  came  to  be  taking  him  home  with  her." 

"Why,  Carter  Keith!"  exclaimed  Judith. 
"  I  'm  ashamed  of  you!" 


•CClberc 

Carter 

Comes  Urt 


20 

"What  for?" 

"That  is  n't  nice  of  you— it 's  selfish." 

"Three  things  I  have  longed  to  see,"  mur 
mured  Miss  Cynthia,  pointedly.  "The  sea 
serpent,  a  white  rhinoceros,  and  an  unselfish 
man." 

The  words  were  sharp,  but  the  light  in  her 
eyes  and  the  smile  that  hovered  about  the  cor 
ners  of  her  mouth  robbed  them  of  their  sting. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  low  chair  and  her 
crutch  clattered  sharply  to  the  floor.  Carter 
half  rose  from  his  chair,  but  she  stopped  him, 
with  the  merest  movement  of  her  hand.  Lines 
of  bitterness  and  rebellion  appeared  for  an 
instant  where  the  smile  had  been,  and  her  eyes 
became  sombre,  as  from  smouldering  fires. 
Then  the  unhappy  mood  vanished,  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come. 

Miss  Cynthia's  hair  was  silver,  but  her  face 
was  young  and  always  would  be.  Her  delicate 
skin  was  peculiarly  transparent  and  the  colour 
that  came  and  went  so  easily  was  not  the 
scarlet  that  from  time  to  time  flamed  upon 
Judith's  cheeks,  but  a  soft,  dull  pink.  At 
times  she  suggested  a  full-blown  pink  rose 
from  which  the  petals  had  begun  to  fall,  but 
this  only  when  her  eyes  were  sad.  Deep, 
dark,  and  strangely  brilliant,  they  dominated 
not  only  her  face  but  her  body.  From  the 
firm,  shapely  throat  that  merged  softly  into 
the  lace  of  her  white  gown,  down  to  the  small 


21 


feet  crossed  upon  a  cushion,  she  was  subordi 
nate  to  the  wonderful  eyes  that  expressed  her 
every  mood  and  tense. 

The  little  feet  were  gaily  clad  in  white  silk 
stockings  and  white  satin  shoes  with  buckles 
of  old  silver,  exquisitely  wrought.  There  was 
nothing  to  indicate  that  one  of  them  was  help 
less  and  always  would  be.  Queerly  enough, 
Miss  Cynthia  had  a  passion  for  shoes  and 
squandered  money  without  stint  upon  dainty 
things  of  velvet  and  satin  in  all  the  colours 
of  the  rainbow,  with  silk  stockings  to  match, 
embroidered,  and,  at  times,  even  inset  with 
medallions  of  real  lace. 

Once,  when  she  had  spent  the  money  that 
should  have  gone  for  taxes  upon  a  fascinating 
pair  of  slippers  with  solid  gold  buckles,  Judith 
had  remonstrated,  mildly,  but  unmistakably. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  spend  money 
for  things  I  don't  want,"  Miss  Cynthia  had 
returned,  in  self-defence.  "  I  did  n't  want  the 
tax-receipt,  and  I  did  want  the  slippers.  And 
so —  "  a  gesture  of  airy  disdain  permanently 
closed  the  incident. 

Judith  had  not  spoken  of  slippers  since, 
except  in  terms  of  admiration  occasionally 
mingled  with  awe.  Following  the  next  ex 
travagance,  Miss  Cynthia  had  observed, 
with  judicial  detachment,  that,  as  her  feet 
were  n't  useful,  they  might  as  well  be  pretty. 
She  sent  a  keen  glance  to  Judith  as  she  spoke, 


B  (Passion 
foe  Sboea 


22 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


H  S>og  of 
parts 


but  that  wise  young  woman  had  not  answered, 
save  with  a  smile. 

"Why  am  I  selfish?"  asked  Carter,  in  the 
manner  of  one  athirst  for  knowledge. 

"  Because  you  're  a  man,"  explained  Miss 
Cynthia,  with  patience. 

"  Because  you  're  not  willing  to  give  a  dog  to 
a  little  girl  who  wants  him,  and  spent  a  bad 
two  hours  hanging  to  a  fence  on  his  account," 
added  Judith. 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  I  can't  give  dogs  to 
everybody." 

"Did  anybody  ask  you  to?" 

"What  kind  of  a  dog  is  he?"  queried  Miss 
Cynthia.  "Judging  by  his  voice  and  his 
industry,  he  is  something  more  than  the 
summary  of  a  diversified  ancestry.  He  seems 
to  be  a  dog  of  parts  and  distinction." 

"  He  is,"  answered  Carter.  "  He  's  a  thor 
oughbred  collie  and  I  spent  yesterday  scouring 
the  country  for  him  with  an  automobile." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  've  scoured  it,"  Miss  Cynthia 
flashed  back.  "Now  all  we  need  is  rain." 

"  If  he 's  a  thoroughbred,"  Judith  con 
tinued,  "  it  would  be  all  the  nicer  of  you  to  give 
him  away." 

Carter  looked  at  her  to  see  whether  she  was 
in  earnest.  From  the  first,  he  had  had  a  certain 
fear  of  Judith,  which,  man-like,  he  was  un 
willing  to  admit,  even  to  himself.  She  was  so 
strong,  so  capable,  so  perfectly  at  ease!  It 


23 

seemed  impertinent,  in  a  way,  to  assist  her  into 
an  automobile  or  a  boat,  to  open  a  door  for 
her,  or  even  to  offer  her  a  chair.  Yet  she  had 
not  the  faintest  suggestion  of  masculinity; 
Judith  was  all  woman,  though  finely  tempered 
and  fully  adequate  to  her  surroundings. 

When  she  came  into  a  room,  she  dominated 
it,  by  sheer  force  of  personality.  She  carried 
herself  well,  with  her  chin  held  high,  her  stately 
head  thrown  back  a  little,  and  her  dark, 
beautiful  eyes  calm,  like  "waters  stilled  at 
even."  She  met  the  world  upon  terms  of 
equality  and  frank  acceptance;  she  diffused 
about  her  a  sort  of  gentleness  and  refinement; 
she  did  not  seem  to  demand  consideration,  but 
simply  took  it,  as  by  right. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  Judith  was  asking,  in 
her  cool  voice,  "that  it  would  be  nice  of  you?" 

"Might  be,"  Carter  admitted.  He  got  up 
and  walked  about  the  balcony,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  "May  I  smoke?" 

"  Certainly." 

"Where  's  the  bone  of  contention?" 

"  Down  in  the  back  yard.  You  can't  miss 
him  if  you  '11  follow  your  ears." 

"We'll  come  down,"  said  Miss  Cynthia, 
picking  up  her  crutch  and  cane.  She  and 
Judith  were  upon  the  lower  porch  when 
Carter  appeared  with  the  frolicsome  Algernon 
gambolling  at  his  heels — "a  frisking  morsel 
beside  a  vast  monument." 


H  Weaver  of  2>reams 


HG5ttt 
wttb  a 
String 


He  was  past  twenty-eight,  but,  at  that  mo 
ment,  he  was  only  a  boy.  "  Don't  ask  me  to 
give  him  away,  Judith/'  he  pleaded.  "He's 
such  a  nice  little  doggie  and  he  's  so  glad  to 
see  me!" 

"You  'd  give  him  to  me,  would  n't  you?" 

"Of  course.  You  shall  have  him  and  his 
entire  family,  if  you  so  desire." 

"To  do  with  as  I  choose?" 

"No.  Not  to  sell  or  to  kill  or  to  give  away, 
but  to  keep." 

"  You  'd  better  keep  him  yourself,"  smiled 
Judith.  "  I  don't  want  a  gift  with  a  string  to  it." 

"In  the  case  of  quadrupeds,"  commented 
Miss  Cynthia,  "strings  are  advisable  and  even 
necessary.  Would  you  mind  getting  a  rope 
now?  I  do  not  care  to  have  him  rampaging 
around  among  my  flower-beds.  Someone  once 
said  that  'life  had  troubles  enough  now  without 
adding  to  it  cats.'  I  go  considerably  farther 
than  that  and  I  want  to  keep  this  place  petless, 
if  I  may." 

"Petless'  is  a  good  word,"  replied  Carter. 

"  It 's  legitimate,  which  is  more  than  can  be 
said  of  most  coined  words.  If  'penniless'  and 
'helpless'  and  'merciless'  and  'pitiless'  and  all 
the  other  'Jesses'  are  good  English,  why  not 
'petless'?" 

"It  sounds  well,"  said  Judith,  thoughtfully. 
"I  suppose  'automobileless'  might  mean  hav 
ing  no  car." 


HlGCtnon  25 

"'Motorless'  is    better,"     Carter    put    in.      almost 
"Where's  the  clothes  line?" 

"Too  far  away  to  find  easily  and  too  new  to 
cut,"  Judith  said.  "Wait  a  minute."  She 
went  into  the  house  and  returned,  shortly, 
with  a  wide,  soft  ribbon  of  baby  blue,  over 
two  yards  in  length. 

"  Is  n't  that  too  nice  to  use?"  asked  Carter, 
doubtfully. 

"No,"  returned  Judith,  with  a  smile.  "  I  'm 
not  selfish." 

"Anything  personal  in  that?"  he  asked, 
tethering  the  puppy  to  one  of  the  fluted  col 
umns  of  the  veranda. 

"Nothing  at  all.  I  was  merely  offering  a 
bit  of  information  as  to  my  own  character." 

"  Information  is  unnecessary,"  he  responded, 
gallantly.  "There  is  nothing  that  is  good  and 
lovely  and  adorable  that  you  are  not.  You  're 
almost  too  perfect,  Judith."  His  eyes  were 
alight  with  love  and  admiration  as  he  spoke. 

"Please  don't  get  sentimental,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia,  plaintively.  "Leave  all  that  until 
I  've  gone  to  bed  and  you  two  sit  out  here  until 
the  moon  gets  tired  and  goes  to  bed  too." 

"Do  I  stay  as  late  as  that?"  asked  Carter, 
lifting  his  eyebrows. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say.  I  know  it  seems 
well  on  toward  morning  when  Judith  tiptoes 
upstairs,  trying  desperately  to  avoid  the 
squeaky  board  that  always  gives  her  away." 


26  H  Weaver  of  Breams 

The  young  man  laughed.  He  and  Miss 
Cynthia  were  very  good  friends  and  he  keenly 
enjoyed  her  harmless  thrusts.  She  was  happy 
even  to  sit  and  look  at  him,  to  exult  in  his 
magnificent  physical  strength,  to  admire  the 
dark  locks  that  would  curl  a  little  in  spite  of 
heroic  daily  efforts  with  a  wet  brush,  to  adore 
his  cleanliness,  his  youth,  and  the  finely- 
chiselled  mouth  and  chin  that  carried  more 
than  a  hint  of  stubbornness.  His  hands  were 
large  and  capable,  his  dark  skin  was  clear,  and 
he  literally  radiated  the  joy  of  living,  if  merely 
for  the  sake  of  life  itself. 

Sometimes,  in  her  black  hours,  Miss  Cynthia 
envied  Judith,  though  she  never  wished  to 
take  from  her  the  smallest  fragment  of  her 
happiness.  The  two  had  been  engaged  for  a 
year  and  were  to  be  married  in  the  Autumn, 
or  whenever  the  new  house  was  done.  They 
had  already  discovered  that  readiness  and  even 
eagerness  to  lie  was  a  marked  characteristic  of 
those  employed  in  the  building  trades. 

Judith  cared  too  little  for  clothes  to  plan  any 
special  trousseau,  but  for  months  past  she  had 
been  embroidering,  with  the  most  fairy-like 
of  stitches,  the  length  of  sheerest  linen  she 
wanted  for  her  wedding  gown.  She  had  a 
passion  for  it  and  often  said  that  could  she 
choose  but  one  fabric  for  all  purposes,  she 
would  ask  for  linen,  and  be  well  content. 

Just  now,  there  was  the  far-away  look  in  her 


Hlgernon 


27 


eyes  that  came  sometimes  when  she  was  at 
work  upon  it.  She  had  retreated,  as  it  were, 
into  the  virginal  silence  and  austerity  of  her 
soul,  and  closed  the  door.  Carter  looked  at  her 
a  little  troubled,  because  she  seemed  so  alien 
and  apart  from  him.  This  was  not  the  Judith 
he  knew  and  loved,  but  a  woman  who  in  an 
instant  and  at  will  had  assumed  the  quality  of 
remoteness,  as  some  far  star.  Then  his  fear 
was  lost  in  a  sudden  rush  of  loyalty,  of  love, 
of  adoration.  To  make  one's  self  worthy  of 
this  peerless  woman  was  incentive  enough  for 
any  man  to  strive,  to  struggle,  and  to  rise  with 
fresh  courage  from  every  defeat. 

She  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  columns 
of  the  porch,  looking  out  into  the  garden,  where 
Miss  Cynthia's  roses  were  all  in  bloom.  Subtle 
fragrances  breathed  their  exquisite  essence  into 
the  golden  web  of  the  afternoon — the  yellow 
lilies,  mint,  lavender,  rosemary,  elder  blossoms, 
and,  above  all,  roses,  roses,  roses,  till  the  senses 
were  intoxicated  with  the  ecstasy  of  the 
humblest  among  them. 

Judith  was  pale,  but  not  colourless.  Her 
gown  was  white,  and,  by  contrast,  her  firm 
flesh  had  the  glow  of  ivory,  tinted  here  and 
there  with  pink.  She  wore  no  jewels  save  the 
single  splendid  ruby  set  in  her  betrothal  ring — 
anything  more  would  have  made  her  seem 
overdressed. 

Carter  forgot  Miss  Cynthia  and  her  caution 


B  peerless 
UUoman 


28 


H  Meaner  of  Dreams 


flBargerie 
Hppeacfi 


about  sentiment.  He  got  to  his  feet,  a  little  un 
steadily,  and  murmured:  "Judith!"  He  choked 
back  an  overwhelming  emotion  as  he  spoke. 

Judith  did  not  turn.  "Someone  is  coming," 
she  said.  "  I  think  it 's  Miss  Gordon." 

A  youthful  figure  in  pale  blue  mull  opened 
the  gate,  entered,  and  closed  it  carefully. 
Margery  came  up  the  gravelled  walk  with  a 
smile  that,  quite  by  itself,  would  take  her  far 
upon  any  way  she  might  choose  to  go.  Her 
big  blue  eyes  were  alluring  in  their  trustfulness; 
the  all-pervading  sweetness  of  her  youth  and 
innocence  gave  her  the  freshness  of  morning 
and  Spring. 

Judith  went  to  meet  her,  with  both  hands 
outstretched  in  welcome.  "  I  'm  so  glad  to 
see  you  're  none  the  worse  for  your  unhappy 
experience  of  yesterday.  Aunt  Cynthia,  this 
is  Miss  Gordon  —  my  Aunt,  Miss  Bancroft, 
of  whom  I  spoke  yesterday.  Miss  Gordon, 
Mr.  Keith.  Sit  down,  please.  I  think  you  '11 
like  this  chair." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Margery.  "I  'd  for 
gotten  that  this  would  be  Sunday  when  I  told 
you  yesterday  that  I  'd  come  to-day,  but  I 
promised,  so  I  'm  here.  I  suppose  Algernon 
has  been  a  perfectly  terrible  nuisance,  but  I  'm 
a  thousand  times  obliged  to  you." 

Algernon,  perhaps  because  he  heard  his  name 
or  from  a  natural  instinct  of  curiosity,  came  out 
from  beneath  his  master's  chair. 


Hlgernon 


29 


"Oh,  you  darling,"  cried  Margery,  rushing 
to  him  and  picking  him  up  in  her  arms.  "  Did 
you  miss  me?  I  missed  you,  abominable  little 
beast  though  you  are!" 

Carter  had  risen.  "Might  I  inquire  why 
you  named  him  Algernon?" 

"  Because  I  hate  it  worse  'n  any  name  I  know, 
and  he  was  such  a  bad  little  doggie,  but  I  guess 
I  '11  change  it.  What  would  you  name  him?" 

"  I  had  n't  named  him.  I  'd  always  called 
him  'the  black-and-white  one/  " 

Margery's  face  saddened.  She  dropped 
Algernon,  who  whined  when  he  struck  the 
porch.  She  turned  troubled  eyes  to  Judith, 
full  of  question  and  appeal. 

"He  happens  to  belong  to  Mr.  Keith,"  said 
Judith,  kindly.  "We're  glad  you  found  him. 
He  's  a  thoroughbred  collie  and  a  very  valuable 
dog." 

The  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears,  the  sweet 
mouth  quivered  a  little,  then,  swiftly,  Margery 
regained  her  self-control.  "Oh,"  she  said. 
"  I  'm  glad  I  found  him  too.  I  '11  have  to  go 
now.  I  promised  Mr.  Chandler  I  would  n't 
be  gone  very  long.  Good-bye,  little  doggie — 
dear  little  doggie!"  Her  voice  broke  on  the  last 
words. 

"Take  him  with  you,  Miss  Gordon,  if  you  'd 
really  like  to  have  him,"  put  in  Carter,  hastily. 

"Oh,  but  I  mustn't,  if  he's  valuable. 
Thank  you,  just  as  much!" 


•Ranting 
tbe 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


fulls  S>otu 


"  He  is  n't  so  valuable  that  I  'm  not  glad  to 
give  him  to  somebody  who  would  be  kind  to 
him.  You  see,"  he  continued,  lamely,  "  I 
have  a  lot  of  dogs,  all  the  time — it  just  happens 
so,  you  know,  and  it 's  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  to  find  good  homes  for  them.  You  have 
no  idea  how  hard  it  is!  I  'd  be  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  you,  if  you  'd  take  him — honestly  I 
would.  Only,  please  don't  name  him  Algernon ! " 

"  I  won't,"  she  promised,  then  immediately 
forgot  it.  "Oh,  thank  you,  so  much!"  She 
picked  up  the  puppy  and  offered  a  small  pink 
hand  to  Carter.  "  It 's  perfectly  lovely  of  you. 
Good-bye.  Good-bye,  Miss  Sylvester.  Good 
bye,  Miss  Bancroft.  I  'd  love  to  come  again, 
if  you  '11  let  me." 

She  went  down  the  path  again,  with  the 
puppy  after  her,  blue  ribbon  and  all.  At  the 
gate  she  turned  to  smile  and  wave  a  friendly 
hand  at  the  little  group  on  the  porch.  When 
the  last  glimmer  of  the  blue  gown  had  vanished 
upon  the  road,  Judith  went  to  Carter  and 
patted  his  cheek. 

"That  was  nice  of  you,"  she  said,  warmly. 
"I  like  you  for  it!  It  was  beautifully  done!" 

Carter  made  a  wry  face  and  shrugged  his 
broad  shoulders.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it, 
so  please  don't  praise  me." 

"Why,"  replied  Judith,  "it  was  partly  to 
please  me,  and  partly  to  please  yourself,  and 
partly  to  please  Miss  Gordon." 


BlQernon 


"  It  was  decent  of  you,  Carter,"  commented 
Miss  Cynthia;  then,  after  a  significant  pause, 
she  added :  "  One  of  the  most  interesting  things 
in  the  world  to  me  is  the  vast  difference  be 
tween  what  people  say  they  are  going  to  do,  and 
what  they  actually  do." 


avast 

Biffetcnce 


flntbe 

Gathering 


III 

1bou0e  of  Content 


DREAMING,  Margery?" 
The  man's  gentle  voice  had  low  music 
in  it,  of  the  sort  that  is  remembered  after  it 
has  ceased.  His  wheeled  chair  was  just  within 
the  open  door  and  the  girl  was  on  the  tiny 
veranda,  sitting  upon  the  top  step,  leaning 
against  a  pillar. 

"No  —  I  was  just  thinking." 

"And  wondering,  perhaps,  why  your  father 
sent  you  to  me?" 

She  was  startled,  but  did  not  betray  herself. 
"  If  Father  wanted  me  to  come,  surely  that  is 
reason  enough." 

Martin  Chandler  beckoned  to  his  attendant. 
"Outdoors,  please."  The  man  pushed  the 
chair  out  upon  the  veranda,  to  its  customary 
corner. 

"Is  that  all,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  until  I  call  you." 

In  the  gathering  dusk,  even,  Margery's 
face  was  pale.  Her  small  hands,  crossed  in 
her  lap,  seemed  pathetically  empty  and  help- 


Ibouse  of  Content 


33 


less.  The  puppy,  craving  a  caress,  nosed 
softly  at  her  arm,  but  she  pushed  him  away. 

"You  don't  have  to  stay,  you  know,"  said 
the  man,  quietly,  "but  I  hope  you  '11  want  to, 
though  it  must  be  dull."  She  did  not  answer 
and,  after  a  pause,  he  spoke  again. 

"  You  look  like  your  father." 

"Do  I,  really?  I'm  glad  you  think  so." 
Then  her  voice  broke  pitifully.  "Oh,  I  miss 
him  so!" 

"Yes,  I  can  readily  understand  that." 

The  sweet  scent  of  the  cedars  came  faintly 
through  the  twilight.  Deep  in  their  purple 
darkness,  somewhere,  a  mother-bird  was 
putting  her  brood  to  sleep  with  a  murmurous 
lullaby,  soothing  the  drowsy  twitter  under  the 
shelter  of  her  wings. 

"God  never  wastes  anything,  Margery," 
the  man  went  on.  "All  the  life  has  risen  out 
of  death  and  all  the  death  has  only  gone  on  to 
be  made  into  life  again.  Nothing  is  lost — 
ever.  It 's  only  changed." 

"How  do  you  mean?     Has  Father ?" 

"Father  has  changed,  as  you  and  I  will 
change.  Life  is  immortal,  though  it  expresses 
itself  in  forms  that  'perish  as  the  leaves/  All 
things  go  back,  eventually,  to  the  one  divine 
source,  as  a  tiny  stream  in  the  mountains  finds 
its  way  at  last  to  the  vast  ocean  that  holds 
the  world  in  its  arms." 

The  pale  gold  moon  of  June  came  out  from 


Dotbing 

TOlaateO 


34 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


flDarttn 

Cbanfcler 


behind  a  cloud  and  shone  full  upon  Chandler's 
face.  Margery,  in  the  shadow  of  the  veranda, 
looked  up  at  him  curiously,  yet  with  a  strange, 
new  sense  of  approaching  peace.  He  was 
fifty — and  the  last  twenty-five  years  of  his  life 
had  been  spent  in  his  wheeled  chair  and  his 
bed.  Suffering  and  rebellion  had  left  lines 
upon  his  face,  if  one  looked  for  them,  but  the 
man's  conquest  of  himself  had,  in  turn,  given 
him  a  serenity  that  was  noble  and  beautiful 
beyond  all  words. 

His  dark  hair  had  not  whitened  entirely, 
but  was  only  silvered  a  little.  His  grey  eyes 
were  deep  and  calm  and  the  strong  lines  of 
his  profile  showed  clearly,  even  in  the  half- 
light.  The  stately  figure  in  the  wheeled  chair 
did  not  suggest  helplessness;  it  seemed  that  he 
was  there  simply  because  he  wanted  to  be. 

"Your  father  told  you,  did  n't  he?"  Chand 
ler  was  saying.  "It  was  a  railroad  accident." 

"  Yes,"  Margery  stammered.  She  crimsoned 
with  shame  because  he  had  read  her  thought, 
but  the  kindly  dusk  hid  her  face. 

"  I  don't  talk  about  it  much,"  he  went  on, 
unemotionally.  "  I  don't  deal  in  horrors. 
At  first  I  thought  I  could  n't  bear  it,  but  I 
knew,  though  dimly  enough,  that  God  never 
places  a  burden  upon  shoulders  unfit  to  carry 
it.  The  work  of  the  world  is  done  by  those 
who  are  strong  and  the  suffering  is  borne  by 
those  who  are  brave.  Sometimes  a  coward 


Ube  Tbouse  of  Content 


will  shift  his  load  and  go  on,  thinking  himself 
free,  but  he  is  not.  He  has  lost  the  power  of 
it,  himself,  and  the  strength  and  courage  he 
needed  for  it,  and  had  at  his  command  to  use, 
have  gone,  divinely,  with  the  burden  he  laid 
aside. 

"When  you  can  see  the  'why*  of  things, 
they  're  no  longer  hard.  The  world  is  per 
fectly  balanced.  For  every  hour  of  darkness 
there  is  one  of  daylight,  for  every  full  tide  a 
corresponding  ebb,  and  for  every  question 
there  is  somewhere  an  answer." 

"  Do  we  always  find  it?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  I  think  so — sometime.  All  that  is  not 
clear  in  this  life  will  be  fully  understood  in 
some  life  to  come. 

"Tell  me,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "about 
this  afternoon.  You  know  I  see  nothing  except 
what  comes  to  me." 

"Why — it  was  nothing.  I  just  went  up 
there.  They  were  all  outside,  so  I  did  n't  go 
into  the  house.  Miss  Sylvester  was  there,  and 
a  Mr.  Keith,  and  Miss  Bancroft,  the  old  lady. 
Miss  Sylvester  calls  her  'Aunt  Cynthia/" 

"  I  know  Miss  Sylvester  and  Mr.  Keith. 
They  come  here  often.  They  're  to  be  married 
soon." 

"Are  they?"  asked  Margery,  idly.  "I 
did  n't  know.  He  seems  nice  and  she 's 
lovely.  I  liked  her  the  minute  I  saw  her." 

"Before  you  saw  her,  almost,  did  n't  you?" 


H  Weaver  ot  H>reams 


t)uman  or 
a  Saint 


"Yes.  It  seems  funny  now,  but  it  wasn't 
at  all  amusing  yesterday.  When  I  saw  her 
red  parasol  turn  into  the  road  that  led  up  the 
hill,  I  could  have  danced  for  joy — if  I  could 
have  moved  my  feet." 

"  Red  usually  means  danger." 

"Yesterday  it  meant  salvation.  She  was 
more  than  kind." 

"  Yes,  she  always  is.  You  can  sit  down  and 
think  of  everything  a  woman  ought  to  be- 
even  write  it  out,  if  you  choose,  and  when 
you  get  through  you  '11  discover  that  you  've 
written  an  accurate  description  of  Judith 
Sylvester.  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  she  's 
merely  human,  like  the  rest  of  us,  or  a  saint 
temporarily  come  to  earth  to  make  us  think 
better  of  a  world  that  has  her  in  it. 

"  I  Ve  often  wished  I  knew  Miss  Bancroft, 
but  she  's  a  shut-in,  like  myself,  and  so  we  've 
never  met,  though  we  've  lived  in  the  same 
town  for  twenty  years  or  so.  Occasionally 
we  send  friendly  messages  to  one  another,  by 
Judith,  or  exchange  books,  but  that 's  all.  I 
don't  even  know  what  she  looks  like.  No  one 
sees  her  very  much,  except  Judith  and  Keith. 
I  don't  like  to  ask  Judith  to  describe  her  aunt, 
and,  of  course,  a  man  can't  discuss  a  lady  with 
another  man.  Sometimes  Judith  tells  me  of 
funny  things  she  says  and  does,  and  I  Ve  often 
pictured  her  to  myself,  but  I  'm  probably 
wrong." 


Ibouse  of  Content 


37 


"Tell  me — how  does  she  seem  to  you?" 

"  I  've  pictured  her  as  very  tall  and  stately, 
with  her  shoulders  stooped  a  little  on  account 
of  her  crutch,  dark  hair  just  beginning  to  turn, 
deep  blue  eyes,  or  grey,  perhaps;  regular 
features,  rather  a  large  mouth  with  very  white 
regular  teeth  and  a  frank  smile,  and  a  crisp, 
clear  voice,  not  shrill,  but  rather  high." 

Margery  laughed.  "Am  I  wrong?"  he 
asked.  "  Don't  tell  me  I  'm  wrong!" 

"Oh,  but  you  are — absolutely!  She  was  n't 
out  of  her  chair,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  n't 
very  tall.  She  's  a  little  person,  not  nearly  as 
big  as  I  am.  Her  hair  is  entirely  white  and  it 
shines  in  the  sun  like  spun  silver,  and  her  eyes 
are  very  dark  and  wonderful — they  're  brilliant, 
like  jewels.  She  has  a  lovely  skin,  clear  and 
delicate,  with  soft  colour  in  it,  a  sweet  mouth, 
plump  little  hands  with  dimples  at  the  knuckles, 
and  a  beautiful  voice,  soft  but  not  low.  She 
wore  white  and  had  on  white  satin  shoes  with 
silver  buckles." 

"  I  see,"  returned  Chandler,  after  a  brief 
silence.  "  I  '11  have  to  change  my  mental 
portrait  of  her.  How  old  is  she?" 

"  Sixty,  by  her  hair — thirty-five  or  forty  by 
her  face." 

"And  how  old  by  her  mind  and  soul?" 

"I  don't  know,"  laughed  Margery.  "How 
many  ages  are  there  for  the  same  person?" 

"Three — one  of  the  body,  one  of  the  mind, 


B  /Dental 
portrait 


H  Meax>er  of  Dreams 


Ubree 
Hge0 


and  one  of  the  soul.  Sometimes  a  soul  of  six 
and  a  mind  of  fifteen  are  shut  up  in  a  body 
of  thirty  or  more,  and  again,  in  a  body  of 
twenty  there  '11  be  a  mind  of  about  the  same 
age  and  a  very  old  soul.  You  see  all  sorts  of 
queer  combinations.  This  is  what  makes  life 
so  unfailingly  interesting.  We  can  measure 
the  age  of  the  body  by  years,  but  not  the 
others." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 

"  Because  they  all  grow  differently  and  have 
different  standards  of  measurement.  You 
could  n't  ask  for  a  yard  of  water  or  a  peck  of 
linen,  could  you?  A  body  progresses  with  a 
certain  regularity,  according  to  the  measure  of 
time,  but  the  others  grow  by  leaps  and  bounds 
and  not  according  to  time  at  all.  In  one  night, 
sometimes,  the  soul  of  a  girl  becomes  the  soul 
of  an  old  woman.  The  body  grows  by  food 
and  work,  the  mind  by  use,  and  the  soul  through 
joy  and  pain." 

"  How  old  am  I  ?"  she  asked,  curiously. 

"About  twenty — in  body." 

"And  the  rest?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can  tell  better  after  you  've 
been  here  a  little  while.  I  hope  you  '11  want 
to  stay.  You  're  the  prettiest  thing  that 's 
ever  been  in  this  old  house,  Margery.  In  the 
few  days  you  've  been  here,  you  've  made  it 
seem  more  like  a  home  than  I  ever  thought  it 
could." 


ZTbe  t>ouse  of  Content 


39 


"  I  'm  glad,"  she  returned,  gently.  "  I  have 
no  home  of  my  own,  now  that  Father — 

"Share  mine,  little  girl,  and  let  me  try  to 
take  his  place  as  far  as  I  may.  If  I  had  ever 
had  a  daughter,  I  should  have  wanted  her  to 
be  like  you." 

Chandler's  attendant  came  out  of  the  house, 
swinging  a  lantern.  He  went  down  the  road  a 
little  way,  to  the  point  where  the  other  road 
crossed  it,  and  came  back  empty-handed. 

"Where  does  he  go?"  asked  Margery. 

"Just  to  the  cross-roads,  to  hang  a  light  upon 
the  sign.  It  is  better  that  it  should  hang  there 
for  three  hundred  and  sixty-four  nights  with 
out  being  needed,  than  to  miss  a  night  when 
some  wayfarer  may  pass  and  take  the  wrong 
road." 

"  Did  you  put  up  the  sign?" 

"Yes,"  he  laughed.  "That  is,  I  had  it 
done.  You  and  I  are  beginning  to  know  each 
other." 

At  the  corner,  just  below  the  house,  there  was 
a  sign  with  a  weather  vane  on  top  of  it,  directing 
the  traveller  East  or  West,  with  the  name  of 
the  nearest  town  and  the  distance.  A  cross- 
arm,  fastened  to  the  same  post,  gave  similar 
information  regarding  points  North  and  South. 

"  I  shall  never  go  myself,"  he  went  on,  "  but 
I  may  show  others  the  way.  So  much  that 
hurts  and  distresses  us  comes  from  taking  the 
wrong  road." 


Ub«  Ifgbt 
at  tbe 

Cros8= 
IRoa&s 


H  TKHeax>er  of  Breams 


•barter 
luck 
Uban 


The  grim  pity  of  it  came  suddenly  to  Mar 
gery,  and  her  eyes  filled.  "Never  out  of  this 
house  and  yard,"  she  said,  half  to  herself;  then, 
to  him, inquiringly:  "An automobile,  perhaps?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  firmly.  "Keith  has 
been  here  a  dozen  times  with  that  trumpeting 
red  monster  of  his,  to  allure  me  into  further 
danger.  I  'm  thankful  to  be  able  to  stay 
here — so  I  shall  stay. 

"At  first,"  he  resumed,  after  a  brief  silence, 
"when  it  seemed  that  I  simply  could  not  bear 
it,  I  got  a  little  blank-book  and  began  to  put 
down  the  names  of  people  I  knew  who  were 
worse  off  than  I.  There  were  only  two  or 
three,  so  I  took  up  history  and  biography  as  a 
serious  business,  and  whenever  I  found  a  man 
who  had  harder  luck  than  mine,  I  put  him  down 
in  the  book. 

"Presently  my  list  began  to  assume  the 
proportions  of  the  one  the  man  sings  about  in 
The  Mikado.  It  outgrew  the  book,  then  filled 
another,  and  by  the  time  I  'd  filled  the  third 
one  I  felt  better.  I  have  them  put  away 
somewhere  now,  all  labelled:  'People  Who  Are 
Worse  Off  Than  I  Am/" 

"  Do  you  ever  read  them  over?" 

"  I  have  n't,  for  years.  I  admit,  however, 
that  the  first  volume  in  the  series  is  pretty  well 
worn  out  and  the  second  one  frayed.  The 
last  pages  in  the  third  are  comparatively  fresh, 
but  some  of  the  poor  fellows  whose  names  are 


Ube  ffoouse  of  Content 


written  there  would  have  been  mighty  glad  to 
change  places  with  me." 

"  I  see,"  said  Margery,  slowly.  "  If  I  should 
do  that — why,  I  'd  have  to  put  down  almost 
everybody." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Chandler,  "you  have  youth, 
beauty,  health,  sufficient  income,  and  a  thou 
sand  other  things.  Sit  down  some  day  and 
write  out  all  you  have  to  be  thankful  for,  if  you 
can  find  a  ledger  that  will  hold  it  all.  And 
don't  forget  the  things  you  have  had,  even 
though  you  have  them  no  longer.  What 
we  've  had  is  ours  forever,  in  a  way,  to  keep, 
and  to  make  the  dreams  of." 

"Dreams?"  she  repeated,  wondering  what 
he  meant. 

"Child,  in  the  House  of  Life  there  is  much 
that  is  wrong.  Penetrate  deeply  into  the 
secret  existence  of  anyone  about  you,  even  of 
the  man  or  woman  whom  you  count  happiest, 
and  you  will  come  upon  things  they  spend  all 
their  efforts  to  hide.  Fair  as  the  exterior  may 
be,  if  you  go  in,  you  will  find  bare  places,  heaps 
of  rubbish  that  can  never  be  taken  away, 
cold  hearths,  desolate  altars,  and  windows 
veiled  with  cobwebs.  Yet,  if  the  owner  is 
wise,  these  things  will  be  concealed  by  a 
marvellous  tapestry  of  dreams. 

"  Sometimes  a  woman,  bitterly  disappointed 
in  her  husband,  shelters  him  behind  her  own 
ideal  of  him  and  smilingly  bids  the  world 


TEapestcie 
of  Steams 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


ttbe  -Real 

and  tbe 

t&eat 


admire  and  even  approach,  but  not  too  near — 
oh,  never  too  near!  Where  anyone  has  failed 
us,  see  how  we  strive  to  hide  it,  and  when  we 
ourselves  have  failed,  there  is  always  someone 
ready  to  help  us,  in  turn.  But  because  the 
dream  persists  and  the  tapestry  is  beautiful 
beyond  words,  we  have  always  something  to 
live  up  to.  It's  only  the  everlasting  dif 
ference  between  the  real  and  the  ideal,  the 
vision  and  the  fact,  and  to  bring  the  two  as 
near  together  as  possible  is  the  one  object  of 
those  who  weave  the  dreams. 

"  I  sit  here  in  my  little  house  at  the  cross 
roads,  and,  in  fancy,  the  whole  world  goes  by 
me.  My  corner  might  be  the  meeting-place 
for  all  the  nations  of  the  earth,  since  the  roads 
run  straight.  Turk  and  Japanese,  South 
African  and  Eskimo,  could  exchange  saluta 
tions  at  my  sign-post  if  they  chose. 

"And,  by  knowing  a  few  people  well,  I  know 
the  whole  world,  for  human  nature  is  the  same 
the  world  over  and  does  not  change.  Having 
only  a  drop  of  water,  a  microscope,  and  a 
dream,  I  fashion  from  it  the  sea.  I  know  it, 
perhaps,  as  he  does  not,  who  only  crosses  it 
in  a  ship." 

Margery  was  silent.  The  twilight  had 
deepened  into  darkness,  and,  farther  on,  the 
twinkling  lights  in  the  other  houses  went  out, 
one  by  one.  A  cheerful  little  clock  in  the 
living-room  struck  nine,  a  busy,  impertinent 


TTbe  Ibouse  of  Content 


43 


one  in  the  kitchen  repeated  it,  and  then  the 
tall  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  boomed  out 
nine  solemn  strokes,  with  finality  and  approval. 

"May  I  say  good-night  now?"  she  asked. 

"Surely.  I  wish  you  pleasant  dreams.  If 
the  other  sort  come,  we  will  banish  them  to 
gether,  for  this  is  the  House  of  Content." 

"Good-night."  She  offered  him  her  hand, 
then,  moved  by  an  impulse  of  quick  tender 
ness,  stooped  to  kiss  him  lightly  upon  the 
forehead. 

Smiling,  he  turned  his  head  to  watch  her  as 
she  took  a  candle  from  the  table  in  the  hall, 
lighted  it,  and  went  upstairs.  Still  retaining 
a  little  of  the  dear  awkwardness  of  youth,  she 
stumbled,  once  or  twice,  upon  the  unfamiliar 
stairs.  Her  soft  step  came  lightly  from  over 
head;  he  heard  one  window  opened,  another 
closed,  and  a  shade  drawn.  Then  her  light 
streamed  out  upon  the  cedars,  bringing  a  faint 
iridescence  from  their  purple  depths.  The 
memory  of  her  light  kiss  lingered  still  upon  his 
forehead,  as  though  the  wing  of  a  butterfly 
had  brushed  him  in  passing. 

His  face  settled  into  unaccustomed  lines  of 
sadness.  Out  of  all  Life  had  to  give,  he  had 
received  so  pitifully  little!  The  House  of 
Content  could  never  be  more  than  a  refuge; 
it  was,  at  the  best,  a  negative  possession.  He 
longed  for  home  and  children  that  night  as  he 
had  never  longed  for  them  before.  If  Margery 


H 

egative 

possession 


44 


H  Meaver  of  Dreams 


H  lonely 
flBan 


had  been  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  instead  of  the 
daughter  of  his  dead  friend,  he  might  have 
held  her  close  in  his  arms  for  a  moment  before 
she  went  away  for  the  night. 

"Whatever  is  mine  I  shall  have  and  I  shall 
keep."  He  said  the  words  aloud,  as  he  had 
many  times.  The  phrase  had  become  a  habit 
with  him  when  the  iron  entered  his  soul. 
Swiftly  his  thought  followed  it:  "And  I  don't 
want  anything  that  is  n't  mine,  and  so — 

"Are  you  ready  now,  sir?" 

His  man  appeared  in  the  doorway,  un 
obtrusively  offering  service.  Chandler  waved 
him  away. 

"Not  yet.     Come  back  in  fifteen  minutes." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

The  light  from  upstairs,  striking  the  cedars, 
threw  the  rest  of  the  place  into  shadow.  The 
small  white  house  was  set  back  a  little  way  from 
the  street;  there  was  a  bit  of  lawn  and  a  white 
picket  fence  and  a  shrub  or  two,  but  no 
garden.  At  the  corner,  where  the  roads  from 
East  and  West  met  those  from  North  and 
South,  his  lantern  illumined  a  wide  circle  upon 
the  gravel.  He  had  carefully  timed  his  beacon- 
light  and  knew  that  it  would  burn  until  dawn. 
A  larger  lantern  was  used  in  Winter. 

Margery's  light  went  out.  Chandler  sighed, 
from  loneliness  and  hunger.  The  things  he 
was  never  to  have,  pressed  their  denial  bitterly 
upon  him  now. 


Ube  Ibouse  of  Content 


45 


"What  has  she  done  to  me?"  he  asked  of 
himself.  "Has  she  stirred  up  all  these  years 
of  useless  raging  against  Fate?  I  wonder  if 
she  has!" 

The  man  came  to  the  door  again.  "  Ready, 
sir?" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Chandler.  "Take  me  into 
the  library  and  bring  the  light  to  the  bookcase." 

For  half  an  hour  or  longer  he  sought  vainly 
among  books,  behind  books,  and  in  desk  and 
table-drawers  that  had  not  been  opened  for  a 
long  time.  His  man  helped  him  into  bed, 
arranged  the  reading-lamp  upon  the  table 
near  him,  put  the  bell  and  the  pitcher  of  water 
within  his  reach,  and  went  into  his  own  little 
room  adjoining. 

Presently  the  house  was  quiet,  save  for  the 
striking  clocks,  but  while  the  lantern  burned 
at  the  cross-roads,  another  light  burned  too. 
Impatient,  and  bitterly  rebellious,  Chandler 
sat  up  in  bed  until  sunrise,  reading  through 
his  entire  list  of  "People  Who  Are  Worse  Off 
Than  I  Am." 


TRebellioua 


46 


B  ttobfn'fl 
Call 


IV 

fIDarfceb  passages 

A  WAYFARING  robin,  having  been  afield 
since  before  dawn,  paused  upon  Mar 
gery's  window-sill  to  rest.  The  sun  shone  full 
upon  her  face  and  the  mass  of  yellow  hair  that 
lay  upon  her  pillow,  bringing  forth  gleams  of 
gold,  with  here  and  there  an  unsuspected  tint 
of  copper. 

The  robin  chirped  inquiringly,  but  the  little 
figure  upon  the  big  mahogany  four-poster  did 
not  stir.  He  called  once  more,  as  to  a  comrade, 
and  yet  again,  but  there  was  no  answer.  With 
a  final  twitter,  he  flew  away,  just  as  the  blue 
eyes  opened. 

"Wasn't  there  a  robin?"  murmured  Mar 
gery,  drowsily.  "  I  thought  there  was  a 
robin,  in  a  cherry  tree  that  had  just  bloomed." 

The  clocks  struck  seven,  bidding  the  lag 
gards  to  rise.  She  sat  up  and  rubbed  her  eyes, 
wondering  where  she  was.  Oh,  yes,  she 
remembered  now.  Father  was  dead  and  she 
was  in  Mr.  Chandler's  house  at  Edgerton, 
where  Father  had  asked  her  to  go.  Tears 


passages 


47 


came  at  the  memory,  then  swiftly  she  brushed 
them  away.  What  was  it  that  Mr.  Chandler 
had  said  last  night — that  Father  was  not  lost, 
but  only  changed?  She  must  not  forget  that, 
for  there  was  mysterious  comfort  in  the 
thought. 

Because  she  was  young  and  it  was  June,  she 
was  singing  to  herself  before  she  had  fairly 
begun  to  dress.  She  loved  the  splash  of  the 
cool  water  upon  her  neck  and  arms,  smiled  at 
the  pink  and  white  and  golden  vision  that 
smiled  back  at  her  from  the  mirror,  and  by 
the  time  she  had  plaited  her  hair  into  a  heavy, 
shining  braid  that  hung  far  below  her  waist, 
she  was  fancying  herself  a  mermaid  upon  the 
coral  reefs  of  some  far  blue  sea,  luring  passing 
ships  to  their  destruction. 

Her  room  appealed  to  her  girlish  love  of 
prettiness.  If  a  woman  had  done  it — say  Miss 
Sylvester — instead  of  old  Eliza  in  the  kitchen 
downstairs,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
lovely.  She  did  not  guess  that  Judith  had  done 
it,  at  Mr.  Chandler's  request,  nor  did  she 
guess  with  what  anxiety  the  lonely  man  had 
awaited  her  coming. 

If  she  could  have  seen  the  expression  of  his 
face,  as  he  fingered  samples  of  dimity,  chintz, 
and  cretonne,  after  Judith  had  assured  him 
that  a  young  woman  of  twenty  would  be  sure 
to  want  pink-and-white  draperies  with  old 
mahogany  furniture,  she  might  have  been 


|?outb  atrt 
3une 


48 


a  Weaver  of  Dreams 


touched  a  little,  but,  in  all  probability,  would 
have  been  only  amused. 

All  the  details  of  the  room  showed  a  woman's 
forethought  and  planning,  from  the  roses  that 
climbed  a  trellis  upon  the  wall  paper  to  blossom 
in  pink-and-white  profusion  at  the  frieze,  to 
the  chintz-covered  screen  in  the  corner  that 
opened  into  a  wonderful  arrangement  of  pockets 
for  the  innumerable  small  belongings  of  a 
dainty  girl's  wardrobe.  The  chintz-covered 
couch  was  heaped  with  pillows  and  was  so 
deep  and  soft  that  Margery  might  sleep  there 
if  she  liked,  on  hot  nights,  when  it  would  be  cool 
near  the  window.  There  was  a  low  sewing- 
chair,  a  big  easy-chair,  and  a  straight-backed 
chair  at  the  dressing-table,  all  with  cushions  of 
the  rose-strewn  chintz. 

Chandler's  tired  face  softened  with  a  smile 
when  she  came  downstairs.  "  Will  you  button 
me?"  she  asked,  backing  up  to  his  chair. 
"Father  always  did — just  those  four  buttons 
in  the  middle  that  I  can't  reach." 

"You  must  forgive  me  if  I  'm  awkward," 
he  replied,  fumbling  at  the  buttons.  "  I  've 
never  done  it  before." 

"  You  '11  soon  learn,"  she  assured  him,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone,  "  but,  if  you  'd  rather  not, 
I  '11  go  to  Eliza." 

"  Please  don't.  At  fifty  it 's  none  too  early 
to  learn  to  do  such  things." 

"How  long  have  you  been  up?" 


passages 


49 


"Oh — longer  than  you  have,  I  fancy.  It's 
a  lot  nicer  to  be  buttoning  a  pretty  girl's  gown 
than  to  be  roasted  on  a  grill." 

"Who  was  roasted?"  demanded  Margery, 
turning. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  about  St.  Laurence. 
He  was  fried,  you  know,  and  they  've  named 
crabs  after  him.  Have  you  never  eaten  Crabs 
d  la  St.  Laurence?" 

Margery  had  n't. 

"Neither  have  I.  I  Ve  just  read  about  'em 
in  cook-books." 

"Do  you  read  cook-books?" 

"Once  in  a  while,  for  light  reading,  and 
sometimes  when  I  'm  hungry  and  Eliza's  cook 
ing  has  missed  the  mark.  After  you  've  read 
half  a  cook-book  you  're  not  hungry  at  all. 
You  've  absorbed  food  with  your  mind  and 
your  body  has  forgotten  about  it." 

"  I  '11  cook  for  you,"  returned  the  girl, 
eagerly.  "I  can  make  fudge,  and  chocolate 
cake,  and  lemonade  with  mint  in  it,  and  two 
kinds  of  cornstarch  pudding — yellow  and 
white." 

"You  shall  make  them  all  some  day,  and 
we  '11  have  a  feast.  Are  you  ready  for  break 
fast  now?" 

"Very  much  so." 

In  spite  of  the  wheeled  chair,  it  was  pleasant 
to  be  in  the  sunny  dining-room  and  watch 
Margery  as  she  sat  opposite  him,  pouring  his 


fcfgbt 
•Rea&fng 


50 


coffee.  Had  things  gone  right  with  him,  long 
ago  —  resolutely  he  put  the  tormenting 
thought  aside.  All  the  joy  of  life,  for  him, 
had  been  crowded  into  one  splendid  hour  that 
had  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 

"Shall  I  bother  you  if  I  bring  my  sewing 
down  here  ?"  she  asked,  when  they  had  finished 
breakfast. 

"No,  indeed!     I  wish  you  would!" 

"What  do  you  do?"  she  queried,  when  they 
were  settled  upon  the  veranda.  "  How  do  you 
keep  from  getting  lonely?" 

"I  don't,"  he  muttered;  then  added,  in 
another  tone:  "Lots  of  things.  I  read,  and 
play  on  the  violin,  and  write  sometimes." 

"What  do  you  write?" 

"Letters,  mostly,  and  now  and  then  a 
story." 

"Oh,  how  lovely!     For  the  magazines?" 

"For,  but  not  in,"  he  replied,  carefully 
differentiating  his  prepositions.  "  Three  things 
are  certain  —  taxation,  death,  and  the  returned 
manuscript." 

"Do  they  send  them  back?" 

"Usually.  Once  in  a  while  one  gets  lost, 
but  it  does  n't  happen  very  often.  The 
relation  between,  people  and  print  is  very 
interesting.  Some  get  in  free,  others  pay  to 
get  in,  and  some  pay  to  keep  out.  And  when 
it  comes  to  literature,  or  what  passes  for  it, 
some  people  get  their  stuff  printed  free,  others 


passages 


pay  to  have  it  done,  and  still  others  are  paid  by 
the  people  who  print  it." 

"Must  be  nice  to  be  paid,"  commented 
Margery,  threading  her  needle. 

"It  is.  I  was,  once,  and  I  've  never  for 
gotten  it.  Two  dollars,  for  a  joke.  It  was  a 
great  stimulant  to  my  sense  of  humour.  I  've 
looked,  ever  since,  for  the  funny  side  of  things." 

"Have  you  always  managed  to  find  it?" 

"Nearly  always,  I  think,  though  it's  never 
proved  remunerative.  Judith  says  it  has 
paid  me  handsomely,  but  intangibly." 

"  She 's  beautiful,  I  think." 

"  Yes.  She  comes  Mondays  and  Thursdays 
to  play  accompaniments  for  me  while  I  fiddle." 

"Then  she  '11  be  here  to-day?" 

"This  afternoon,  at  two.  She  adds  to  her 
other  virtues  the  gift  of  punctuality,  which  is 
said  to  be  the  politeness  of  kings.  When 
Judith  opens  the  gate  I  can  safely  set  my 
watch  at  two.  If  it  is  a  minute  or  so  out  of 
reckoning,  one  way  or  the  other,  it 's  the  watch, 
not  Judith." 

It  was  ten  minutes  past  the  hour,  by  Mar 
gery's  tiny  gold  watch,  when  Judith  appeared 
at  the  cross-roads.  Following  Chandler's  hint, 
she  made  the  correction  when  Judith  lifted  the 
rusty  latch  and  called  cheerfully:  "Good 
afternoon,  everybody ! "  She  had  a  roll  of  music, 
two  books,  a  bottle,  and  her  red  parasol. 

"I  can't  shake  hands,"  she  laughed,  as  she 


On  tbe 
Strobe  of 
tbe  Clock 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


H  Ttote 
from  rtMsa 


came  up  to  the  veranda,  "until  I  have  laid 
down  my  burdens.  Here  's  a  new  novel  for 
Miss  Gordon— 

"Margery,  please,"  the  girl  interrupted,  as 
she  took  it.  "  I  wish  you  would." 

"  I  '11  be  glad  to,  Margery,  if  you  will  call  me 
Judith.  Here 's  a  bottle  of  Aunt  Cynthia's 
currant  wine  from  me,"  she  continued,  to 
Chandler,  "and  a  book  from  her,  and  new 
music  for  both  of  us  from  Carter.  Is  n't  it  a 
lovely  world  and  is  n't  everybody  kind  to 
everybody  else!" 

Chandler  had  unwrapped  the  book  while  she 
was  speaking.  As  he  had  hoped,  there  was  a 
note  inside.  "May  I?"  he  asked;  then,  taking 
consent  for  granted,  he  read,  in  Miss  Bancroft's 
quaint,  old-fashioned  hand: 

"DEAR  FRIEND: 

"  I  have  enjoyed  this,  so  I  pass  it  on  to  you. 
I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  having  marked  it. 
Keep  it  as  long  as  you  like.  I  was  much 
interested  in  the  magazine  article  you  sent,  as 
you  knew  I  would  be.  If  you  have  anything 
I  have  n't  read,  please  send  it  by  Judith.  My 
mind  is  as  a  parched  prairie  and  I  'm  praying 
for  rain. 

"Yours, 

"CYNTHIA  BANCROFT." 

Margery,  meanwhile,  was  looking  at  Judith 


passages 


53 


with  frank  admiration.  She  had  chosen  a 
scarlet  gown  that  afternoon,  relieved  with 
touches  of  black,  and  was  as  resplendent  as  an 
Oriental  poppy  might  be,  had  it  fragrance  as 
well  as  beauty.  She  had  dominated  the  place 
from  the  moment  she  came  to  it.  Everything 
else  was  subordinate  and  accessory  to  her. 

"How  is  Miss  Bancroft?"  Chandler  asked. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  and  especially  happy 
this  afternoon.  The  shopping  agent  has  just 
come  out  from  town  with  a  caravan  of  lovely 
things.  When  I  go  back,  to-night,  we  shall  be 
paupers  as  far  as  Aunt  Cynthia  is  concerned. 
It 's  fortunate  for  us  both  that  I  have  a  little 
money  of  my  own." 

Four  times  each  year  a  woman  of  taste  and 
discernment  went  to  Miss  Bancroft,  who  was 
an  easy  prey  to  everything  but  hats.  As  she 
never  went  outside  her  own  hedge,  she  needed 
nothing  but  the  lace  scarf  she  habitually  wore 
on  cool  evenings.  She  disdained  gloves,  for 
the  same  reason,  and  wraps  of  all  sorts,  though 
she  had  once  yielded  to  the  charms  of  a  long 
white  opera  coat  encrusted  with  lace  and 
silver  and  lined  with  white  fur.  Shoes,  gowns, 
lingerie,  and  expensive  daintiness  for  her 
dressing-table  were  the  things  that  allured  her 
most. 

"When  I  left,"  Judith  was  saying,  "the 
Serpent  from  the  City  was  tempting  her  with 
a  hat — a  wonderful  affair  of  white  lace,  real, 


Ube  Ser» 

pent  from 

tbe  Cits 


54 


H  Weaver  ot  Dreams 


fll>an'0 

love  an6 

TOloman's 

love 


too,  if  you  please,  heavy  with  white  plumes  and 
dazzling  with  a  most  marvellous  buckle  of 
brilliants.  The  Serpent  was  telling  her  that 
she  ought  to  have  it  to  wear  on  cool  evenings 
when  she  sat  out  on  the  porch  until  late — it 
would  be  so  lovely  with  her  white  coat.  She  'd 
brought  one  of  those  Egyptian  scarfs,  too, 
a  white  one  all  glitter  and  sparkle — the  sort 
you  buy  by  the  pound — and  a  new  perfume 
that  sells  for  five  dollars  an  ounce.  It  made 
me  think  of  a  bit  of  verse  I  read  somewhere 
about  a  caravan  coming  from  China  with 
silks,  spices,  and  myrrh,  and  the  tinkle  of  the 
camel's  bells,  only  the  bells  in  this  case  are 
profanely  replaced  by  the  horn  on  the  Serpent's 
automobile." 

"Has  she  a  car?"  asked  Margery. 

"Of  course  she  has  a  car!  Hasn't  Aunt 
Cynthia  been  buying  things  from  her  for  years 
and  years?  She  may  have  two  or  three,  unless 
she 's  a  thrifty  person  who  wants  to  keep 
money  in  the  bank  for  emergencies. 

"Apropos  of  the  automobile,  Aunt  Cynthia 
observed,  just  as  I  was  leaving,  that  it  was 
like  man's  love — easy  to  get  but  hard  to 
keep." 

"  Like  woman's  love,  too,  perhaps,"  laughed 
Chandler.  He  was  enjoying  himself  very 
much. 

"Woman's  love  is  rather  the  reverse  of  that, 
I  think,"  returned  Judith.  "Hard  to  get  but 


passages 


55 


easy  to  keep.  Let  me  take  that  bottle  of  wine 
into  the  house  and  put  it  into  a  cool  place." 

As  she  picked  it  up,  the  cork  came  out  and  a 
dark  stream  ran  down  the  front  of  her  scarlet 
gown.  Chandler  was  distressed,  but  Judith 
hastened  to  assure  him  that  the  damage  was 
not  permanent.  "Take  me  upstairs,  please," 
she  said  to  Margery.  "A  little  cold  water 
will  make  me  right  again.  We  seem  to  take 
turns  scrubbing  each  other."  Then,  as  they 
went  into  the  hall:  "  Did  you  like  your  room?" 

"Oh,  so  much!  It's  altogether  the  loveliest 
room  I  've  ever  had." 

"I  'm  glad  you  like  it,"  Judith  answered; 
then  the  voices  were  lost  in  a  pleasant  feminine 
murmur  that  came  agreeably  to  Chandler's 
ears. 

He  picked  up  the  book  Miss  Bancroft  had 
sent  him,  read  her  note  again,  then  slipped  it 
between  the  leaves.  A  marked  passage  con 
fronted  him,  and,  idly,  he  read: 

"And  though  we  choose  to  right  or  to  left 
of  us,  on  the  heights  or  in  the  shallows;  though, 
in  our  struggle  to  break  through  the  enchanted 
circle  that  is  drawn  around  all  the  acts  of  our 
life,  we  do  violence  to  the  instinct  that  moves 
us  and  try  our  hardest  to  choose  against  the 
choice  of  destiny,  yet  shall  the  woman  we  elect 
always  have  come  to  us,  straight  from  the 
unvarying  star." 

He  threw  the  book  aside,  his  face  working. 


•a  be 

/HJarfteS 
Volume 


H  TKHearet  of  Breams 


Kite  a 
Sunbeam 


In  a  few  moments  he  was  himself  again  and 
when  Judith  and  Margery  came  back,  with 
the  stain  removed,  he  showed  no  signs  of 
agitation. 

Until  late  in  the  afternoon  he  and  Judith  sat 
at  the  piano,  trying  the  new  music.  "  We  're 
doing  very  well,  I  think,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  aren't  we?  But  we  '11  have  to  do  it 
a  lot  better  before  we  try  to  play  it  for  Carter." 

"We  '11  have  a  dinner-party,"  Chandler  sug 
gested.  "You  and  Carter  and  Margery  and  I, 
with  music  afterward.  Margery  can  cook — 
chocolate  cake  and  two  kinds  of  pudding." 

"Isn't  she  dear!"  said  Judith,  with  a  low, 
sweet  laugh.  Through  the  window  they  could 
see  Margery  as  she  sat  on  the  veranda,  with 
her  sewing  cast  aside,  vainly  endeavouring 
to  teach  Algernon  to  sit  up  on  his  hind  legs 
and  shake  hands. 

"She  came  into  this  old  house  like  a  sun 
beam,"  sighed  Chandler.  "  I  begin  to  feel  as 
if  I  had  a  daughter,  and  I  dread  to  have  her 
go  away." 

"  But  she  's  not  going,  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know.  She  came  merely  in 
obedience  to  her  father's  dying  request.  No 
time  limit  was  set  upon  her  stay,  but  of  course 
she  '11  go,  sometime.  It  must  be  incredibly 
dull  here." 

"  Perhaps  not  as  dull  as  you  think,"  returned 
Judith,  kindly. 


passages 


57 


Margery  came  in,  just  then,  with  the  puppy 
under  her  arm.  "He  can  almost  sit  up,"  she 
announced,  "but  he  won't  shake  hands.  Sit 
up,  Algernon — there,  that 's  right.  Oh,  did 
you  hurt  your  little  nose?" 

"Won't  you  come  home  with  me,"  asked 
Judith,  "and  stay  to  dinner?  Aunt  Cynthia 
would  be  so  glad  to  have  you." 

"  I  'd  like  to,"  replied  Margery,  with  a  doubt 
ful  glance  at  Chandler. 

"  Go,"  he  said  eagerly.     "  Please  do." 

"Won't  you  miss  me?" 

"Not  I,"  he  parried.  "Haven't  I  a  new 
book?" 

"  We  '11  see  that  you  get  home  safely," 
interposed  Judith.  "  Perhaps  Carter  will  take 
us  out  in  the  car  to-night,  if  it  is  n't  being 
repaired." 

"  I  must  dress,  then.  Will  you  wait  ?  I 
shan't  be  long." 

"That  was  kind,"  said  Chandler,  gratefully, 
as  Margery's  door  closed  upstairs.  "It  must 
be  lonely  for  her  here.  I  'm  poor  company  for 
anybody  and  especially  for  a  young  woman." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  're  not  fishing  for  a  compli 
ment.  Don't  I  come  twice  a  week  and  am  I 
not  young?" 

"  Both  young  and  beautiful,  but  I  have  no 
delusions  about  your  coming.  It 's  only  your 
unselfishness  and  kindness  of  heart,  expressing 
itself  as  your  nature  demands." 


Bn 

Invitation 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


CbanMer'0 
tRequest 


"  I  was  n't  fishing,  either,"  she  assured  him, 
playfully,  but  the  heightened  colour  in  her 
cheeks  showed  that  she  was  pleased. 

When  Margery  came  down,  Chandler  had 
found  a  book  for  Miss  Cynthia,  and,  upon  a 
corner  of  the  library  table,  had  written  a  brief 
note,  carefully  phrased,  thus: 

"DEAR  FRIEND: 

"Thank  you  for  Judith  and  the  wine  and 
the  book.  I  shall  like  it  the  more  because  you 
have  marked  it.  Already  I  feel  that  I  know 
you,  through  the  subtle  freemasonry  of  your 
marked  passages.  Will  you  please  send  me 
your  photograph? 

"M.  C." 

Margery  was  in  white,  with  her  yellow  hair 
piled  high  on  her  shapely  head.  To  Chand 
ler's  delight,  she  went  to  him,  instead  of  Judith, 
to  be  buttoned.  "Just  the  four  in  the  middle 
that  I  can't  reach.  You're  improving.  In  a 
week,  you  '11  be  doing  as  well  as  Father." 

He  was  smiling  when  they  went  away, 
arm  in  arm,  leaving  Algernon,  who  was  fain 
to  follow,  lamenting  at  the  gate.  At  the  cross 
roads  they  both  turned  back,  to  wave  friendly 
farewells  at  the  man  whom  they  could  not  see, 
but  who,  as  they  surmised,  would  watch  them 
until  they  were  out  of  sight. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there,  thinking.    The 


passages  59 


memory  of  Margery's  presence  lingered  in  the 
house  like  a  slowly  fading  light.  Indefinable 
fragrances  filled  the  room;  the  echo  of  her 
laughter  seemed  not  to  have  died  away. 

His  face  saddened,  then  he  said,  aloud: 
"Whatever  is  mine  I  shall  have  and  I  shall 
keep.  And  what  is  n't  mine,  I  surely  don't 
want." 

He  took  up  the  book  again,  and  read  one 
marked  passage  after  another.  An  hour 
later,  his  man  came  to  tell  him  that  dinner  was 
ready,  but  he  only  waved  him  away  and 
asked  for  the  reading  lamp.  Miss  Cynthia 
had  marked  this,  not  with  a  parenthesis,  as 
was  her  wont,  but  with  heavy  lines  under 
neath  : 

"Is  it  not  silence  that  determines  and  fixes 
the  savour  of  love?  Deprived  of  it,  love 
would  lose  its  eternal  essence  and  perfume. 
Who  has  not  known  those  silent  moments 
which  separated  the  lips  to  reunite  the  souls?" 

In  the  margin  she  had  written,  very  lightly: 
"Where?" 

"Where,  indeed!"  Chandler  echoed,  in  his 
thought.  More  than  once  he  had  suspected 
her  of  experience  similar  to  his  own.  This 
passage  was  in  the  familiar  parenthesis: 

"  It  is  death  that  is  the  guide  of  our  life  and 
our  life  has  no  goal  but  death.  Our  death  is 
the  mould  into  which  our  life  flows:  it  is  death 
that  has  shaped  our  features." 


6o 


a  Meaner  of  Dreams 


IRetutn 


Once  more,  in  the  margin,  she  had  written, 
very  faintly:  "When?"  Chandler's  thought 
repeated  hers.  "When?" 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  the  auto 
mobile  left  Margery  at  the  gate  and  purred 
noisily  on.  She  came  in,  humming,  surprised 
to  find  him  waiting  for  her. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  time?" 

"Lovely.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  to 
morrow." 

"Pleasant  dreams,  Margery." 

"And  to  you." 

"And  though  we  choose  to  right  or  to  left 
of  us,"  Chandler  read  again,  "on  the  heights 
or  in  the  shallows;  though,  in  our  struggle  to 
break  through  the  enchanted  circle  that  ^s 
drawn  around  all  the  acts  of  our  life,  we  do 
violence  to  the  instinct  that  moves  us  and 
try  our  hardest  to  choose  against  the  choice 
of  destiny,  yet  shall  the  woman  we  elect  al 
ways  have  come  to  us,  straight  from  the 
unvarying  star." 

A  light  step  sounded  beside  him.  "  I  forgot," 
said  Margery.  "  I  Jm  sorry.  Miss  Bancroft 
gave  me  a  note  for  you.  Good-night  again." 
She  was  lovelier  than  ever  as  she  stood  in  the 
half-light  of  the  candle  she  carried,  in  a  tur 
quoise  blue  kimono,  her  little  bare  feet  thrust 
into  blue  satin  Chinese  slippers,  embroidered 
in  green  and  gold,  and  her  wonderful  golden 
hair  rippling  almost  to  her  feet. 


passages 


61 


"Good-night,  my  dear.  Thank  you  for 
coming  back." 

When  her  door  had  closed,  he  tore  the  note 
open,  eagerly,  while  his  book  slipped  unheeded 
to  the  floor.  Then  he  smiled  at  the  character 
istic  whimsicality  of  it.  Without  the  grace  of 
a  beginning,  it  said,  merely: 


flMss 
Ccntbia'6 
Bnswec 


No.     I   won't. 


"C.  B." 


62 


Carter's 
pets 


A 


pillows 

S  Carter  had  told  Margery,  he  had  "a  lot 
of  dogs,  all  the  time."  He  had  not  out 
grown  a  boyish  passion  for  pets,  and  in  addition 
to  a  thriving  kennel  of  collies,  he  kept  pigeons 
and  rabbits,  though  he  was  secretly  ashamed 
to  admit  the  existence  of  the  rabbits. 

The  four  corners  of  the  Warner  place  were 
devoted  to  live  stock — pigeon-house,  chicken- 
house,  rabbit-hutch,  and  dog-house.  The 
chickens  belonged  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warner 
and  were  the  only  profitable  part  of  the 
menagerie. 

An  article  in  a  stray  copy  of  an  agricultural 
journal  had  led  Carter  to  believe  that,  if  he 
had  a  few  pigeons,  he  might,  in  a  year  or  two, 
give  up  the  practice  of  law  in  the  City  and 
devote  himself  to  raising  squabs  for  the 
market.  A  hurried  calculation  on  the  margin 
of  the  paper  showed  him  that,  at  the  normal 
rate  of  increase,  it  would  eventually  take  four 
men,  divided  into  two  shifts,  all  day  and  all 
night  to  get  the  squabs  ready  to  ship.  Every 
morning,  of  course,  he  would  go  down,  inspect 


pillows  63 

each  bird,  tie  its  legs  together  with  a  red 
string,  and  put  a  tag  on  it:  "  Keith's  Squabs." 

At  first  he  considered  the  advisability  of 
using  his  full  name.  "Carter  Keith's  Squabs" 
looked  better,  upon  the  whole,  but,  as  the 
brand  became  known,  it  might  lead  to  em 
barrassment.  Judith,  for  instance,  when  she 
had  "Mrs.  Carter  Keith"  on  her  visiting 
cards,  might  be  asked  occasionally  if  she  were 
"the  Squab  Woman."  And  he  was  very  sure 
that  some  of  his  friends  in  town  would  christen 
him  "the  Squab  Lawyer,"  and  that,  with  the 
fatality  attending  such  things,  the  name  would 
stick. 

Then  the  feathers — pillow-factories  would 
be  glad  to  get  them,  if  the  price  was  right. 
Where  were  the  pillow-factories  anyhow? 
He  made  a  memorandum  in  his  note-book: 
"Find  P.  F's — get  feather  rates  and  particu 
lars."  The  first  few  pillows,  of  course,  he 
would  want  himself,  being  about  to  go  to 
housekeeping.  Or,  would  Judith  think  he 
was  infringing  upon  her  province  ?  Already 
she  had  gone  to  town  several  times  on  the 
mysterious  excursions  that  women  call  "shop 
ping."  Perhaps  they  had  pillows. 

"Aunt  Belinda,"  he  inquired,  at  the  break 
fast  table,  "does  the  bride  buy  the  pillows?" 

"What  pillows?  What  bride?"  queried  Mrs. 
Warner,  somewhat  startled,  though  by  this 
time  well  accustomed  to  irrelevant  questions. 


64 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


following 
TOp  a  Clue 


"Any  bride — all  pillows.  Er — sofa,  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,"  he  concluded, 
with  a  comprehensive  gesture. 

"Why — I  guess  so."  The  old  lady  took  off 
her  spectacles,  wiped  them  on  a  corner  of  the 
tablecloth,  and  readjusted  them. 

"Did  you?" 

"  I  disremember.  Yes,  I  did.  We  had 
geese  and  Ma  and  me  saved  the  feathers  and 
made  my  pillows." 

"  Suppose  you  had  n't  had  geese  and  Uncle 
Henry  had  —  would  he  have  made  the 
pillows?" 

"He  did  have  geese.  Everybody  had,  in 
those  days." 

"  Did  he  give  you  the  feathers?" 

"No,  he  gave  'em  to  his  sister-in-law's  cousin. 
She  was  married  six  months  before  we  was. 
She  was  a  master-hand  at  patchwork.  My, 
her  quilts!  She  always  got  the  first  prize  at 
the  county  fair — she  got  it  three  years  hand- 
runnin'  for  the  same  quilt.  Mine  was  n't 
nothin',  alongside  of  hers." 

Carter's  legal  mind,  eagerly  following  up  a 
clue,  was  not  thus  to  be  diverted.  "Why 
did  n't  Uncle  Henry  give  you  his  feathers, 
instead  of  saving  them  for  his  cousin's  sister- 
in-law?" 

"Sister-in-law's  cousin,  I  said.  She's  Mis' 
Jacob  Simms,  over  to  Jonesville.  I  had  one  of 
them  souverine  post-cards  from  her  yesterday 


[pillows 


with  a  picture  of  her  husband's  store  on  it. 
You  can  see  the  sign  in  the  picture  as  plain  as 
day:  'Simms'  General  Store.'  Don't  it  beat 
all  what  they  can  do  with  them  cards?" 

"  Sister-in-law's  cousin,  then.  Why  did  n't 
he  give  you  his  feathers?" 

"  Ma  and  me  had  enough  of  our  own.  Do 
you  suppose  I  'd  have  gone  around  askin'  my 
intended  for  feathers  when  I  had  plenty?" 

"  But  if  you  had  n't  had  any?" 

"  I  'd  have  got  'em,  someway." 

"From  him?" 

"Perhaps— why?" 

"Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  know.  What  else 
did  you  buy  when  you  went  to  housekeeping?" 

"The  sheets  and  pillow-slips  and  towels, 
all  the  tablecloths  and  napkins,  two  blankets, 
one  comfort,  and  six  quilts  all  pieced  by  hand. 
Ma  give  us  a  churn  and  a  big  rag  rug,  and 
Henry's  pa  give  us  two  stoves  and  a  cow,  and 
Henry's  Uncle  Ned  give  us  a  sausage  grinder." 

"Never  mind  all  the  wedding-presents.  I 
was  just  asking  about  the  feathers." 

"Your  last  question,"  rejoined  Aunt 
Belinda,  with  some  asperity,  "unless  I  dis- 
remember  it,  was  'What  else  did  you  buy 
when  you  went  to  housekeeping?"' 

"So  it  was,"  returned  Carter,  good-hu- 
mouredly.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was 
merely  endeavouring  to  discover  the  established 
precedent." 


66 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Ube 
Collie'* 
punisb* 

ment 


"The — what?" 

"The  usual  custom/' 

"Oh!"  Then,  by  a  characteristically  femi 
nine  process,  independent  of  logic,  Aunt  Be 
linda's  mind  penetrated  the  inmost  recesses  of 
the  young  man's  thought.  "Why  don't  you 
ask  her?"  she  suggested,  kindly. 

Carter  blushed  as  he  rose  from  the  table. 
"Thank  you.  I  believe  I  will.  I  hadn't 
thought  of  that." 

Aunt  Belinda  followed  him  to  the  door. 
"Mr.  Keith,"  she  said  timidly,  "don't  you 
think  that  poor  dog  has  suffered  enough?" 

"What  dog?"  He  was  unable,  for  the 
moment,  to  compass  the  vast  distance  between 
pillows  and  pups. 

"The  one  in  the  shed,  with  the  rabbit  tied 
to  his  neck.  He  's  been  there  three  days  now, 
and  when  the  wind  comes  from  that  way — 

"Oh!"  With  an  effort,  he  recalled  the  half- 
grown  collie  that  had  killed  a  baby  rabbit, 
and,  with  the  body  of  his  victim  fastened  to  his 
collar,  had  been  shut  up  in  a  dark  shed  to 
repent  of  his  sins,  with  only  a  pail  of  water  to 
sustain  him.  "Yes,  I  guess  so.  I  '11  go  out 
there." 

"Your  Uncle  Henry '11  bury  the  rabbit," 
she  called  after  him,  then  she  added,  to  herself, 
"it  needs  it." 

Shamefaced,  hungry,  and  ill,  the  collie  came 
sheepishly  to  his  master  when  Carter  opened 


pillows 


the  door  of  the  shed.  Relieved  of  his  odorous 
burden,  he  followed  him  out  into  the  yard, 
blinking  in  the  bright  sunlight. 

"That'll  be  about  the  last  rabbit  you'll 
take  any  interest  in,  old  man,  unless  I  'm  much 
mistaken,"  Carter  remarked,  half  to  himself. 
"There  's  a  highly  moral  lesson  in  it,  for  even 
so  do  our  sins  follow  us.  Go  on  up  to  the  house 
now  and  ask  for  something  to  eat." 

With  a  farewell  pat,  he  dismissed  the  dog 
and  started  at  a  run  for  the  eight-seventeen 
train. 

Uncle  Henry  had  just  left  the  barn  with 
two  tin  pails  full  of  foaming  milk.  The  dog 
nosed  at  them  eagerly,  with  pathetic  little 
whines.  "Learned  yer  lesson?"  inquired  the 
old  man.  "  If  you  have,  you  can  have  break 
fast — otherwise  not." 

"I  '11  feed  him,  Father,"  called  Mrs.  Warner, 
from  the  porch.  "You  go  and  bury  that 
rabbit." 

Having  become  accustomed  to  obedience 
early  in  his  matrimonial  career,  "Father" 
dutifully  did  as  he  was  requested.  When  he 
came  back,  the  collie  was  asleep  in  the  sun,  his 
penance  over. 

Murmurous  coos  came  from  the  pigeon- 
houses,  a  cheery  and  industrious  medley  rose 
from  the  chicken  yard,  and  shrill  barks  and 
yelpings  came  from  the  kennels.  A  white- 
winged  pensioner  of  Carter's  fluttered  down 


B  /floral 
lesson 


68 


H  Weaver  ot  Breams 


Carter's 
place 


from  the  roof,  drank  from  a  deep  tile  set  into 
the  ground,  and  went  back  to  his  own  corner. 
Mr.  Warner  settled  down  into  an  old  chair  on 
the  back  porch,  with  a  long  sigh  of  content. 

From  within  came  the  clatter  of  pots  and 
pans,  the  rumble  of  stove-lids,  and  the  brisk 
strokes  of  a  broom.  As  Aunt  Belinda  worked, 
she  sang  to  herself,  in  a  quavering  old  voice 
somewhat  of?  the  key,  but  with  a  peculiar 
sweetness.  Carter  had  lived  with  them  for 
five  or  six  years  and  seemed  more  like  a  son 
than  a  mere  boarder.  The  two  old  people  had 
a  little  room  downstairs,  off  the  sitting-room, 
and  the  entire  second  floor  was  given  over  to 
the  young  man.  At  his  own  expense,  he  had 
fitted  up  a  modern  bath-room,  with  a  shower, 
and  he  had  a  sitting-room,  den,  and  bedroom,  as 
well  as  an  extra  bedroom  for  an  occasional 
guest. 

In  reality  the  place  was  his,  at  a  very  mod 
erate  rental.  He  had  gradually  replaced  the 
worn  old  furniture  with  that  of  his  own  choos 
ing,  and  the  faded  carpets  by  good  rugs.  The 
old  people  adored  him  and  spent  their  lives 
in  the  endeavour  to  anticipate  his  slightest 
wish.  When  he  bought  his  automobile,  Uncle 
Henry  had  a  new  shed  built  for  it,  and  labori 
ously  made  a  wide  path  from  the  shed  to  the 
road.  Once,  when  Carter  brought  home  the 
menu  of  a  banquet,  Aunt  Belinda  studied  it 
for  two  days,  then  posted  Uncle  Henry  off  to 


pillows 


69 


town  on  a  very  hot  day  to  buy  three  or  four 
new  cook-books  which  she  had  seen  advertised 
in  her  household  journal.  She  experimented 
faithfully,  but  as  nothing  seemed  to  turn  out 
right  she  went  back  to  the  simple  fare  she  knew 
so  well  how  to  provide. 

In  return,  Carter  gave  them  something  more 
than  a  tolerant  tenderness.  He  remembered 
birthdays,  was  generous  at  Christmas,  sub 
scribed  for  the  magazines  they  liked,  and 
occasionally  gave  Aunt  Belinda  a  rose  or  two 
from  the  huge  boxes  he  brought  out  from  town 
for  Judith.  Once  he  took  them  both  to  dinner 
at  his  club  and  afterward  to  the  theatre,  but 
as  their  excitement  and  mystification  seemed 
greater  than  their  pleasure,  he  had  not  done 
it  again. 

Aunt  Belinda  came  out  on  the  porch,  wiping 
her  flushed  face  with  her  apron.  "He  was 
asldn'  about  pillows,"  she  began,  as  she  sank 
into  a  dilapidated  chair. 

"  What  was  he  askin'  ?  "  "  He,"  in  the  War 
ner  household,  always  meant  Carter. 

"  Everything  but  what  he  wanted  to  know. 
I  suppose  that's  the  way  of  a  lawyer.  He 
wanted  to  know  whether  he  would  have  to 
buy  the  pillows  or  she  would,  but  he  kept 
askin'  me  about  the  feathers  you  give  your 
sister-in-law's  cousin  when  she  was  married." 

Any  mention  of  the  approaching  wedding  al 
ways  saddened  the  old  people.  Aunt  Belinda 


Un  "Return 


;o 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


"Cbe  Winy 
of 

CbllSren 


took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  away  a 
bit  of  mist.  "Someways  it  don't  seem  as  if 
I  could  have  him  go  away,"  she  said,  with 
lips  that  quivered  a  little.  "  If  we  'd  had 
children " 

"  If  we  'd  had  children,"  Uncle  Henry 
interrupted,  "they'd  have  got  married  and 
gone  off  and  left  us  and  we  'd  have  felt  worse. 
It 's  accordin'  to  the  way  of  children.  You 
and  I  did  it." 

"  I  've  been  thinkin'  these  last  few  days," 
rejoined  Aunt  Belinda,  "that  I  know  now  how 
Ma  felt  when  we  driv'  away.  I  remember 
she  was  cryin'  and  I  never  understood  how  she 
could  when  we  was  so  happy.  The  day  that 
boy  quits  trampin'  around  overhead  till  we  're 
afraid  the  ceilin  's  comin'  down,  and  puttin' 
his  wet  towels  on  the  floor  and  coverin'  the 
whole  place  with  his  litter,  and  begins  to  move 
his  menagerie ' 

"There,  there,  Mother,"  comforted  Uncle 
Henry,  "don't  take  it  so  hard.  We've  got 
each  other  left  and  that 's  all  we  started  out 
with." 

"It's  more  than  wonderful  and  magnifi 
cent,"  Carter  was  saying.  "It's  astonish 
ing." 

Miss  Cynthia  had  succumbed  to  the  metro 
politan  wiles  of  the  Serpent  and  bought  the 
hat,  as  Judith  had  foreseen.  She  was  wear- 


pillows 

ing  it,  even  though  they  were  in  the  house. 
Since  she  bought  it,  she  had  taken  it  off  only  to 
sleep. 

"  You  may  say  anything  you  like  about  it," 
returned  Miss  Cynthia,  somewhat  on  the 
defensive,  "  but  you  can't  tell  me  that  it  is  n't 
becoming." 

"No,"  Carter  rejoined,  in  his  most  judicial 
manner,  "  I  can't.  That  is,  unless  I  want  to 
lie,  and,  as  Aunt  Belinda  says,  '  I  do  admire' 
to  tell  the  truth." 

Miss  Cynthia's  cheeks  were  pink  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  brilliantly.  The  hat  was  large, 
even  for  the  fashion  of  a  period  given  to  ex 
tremes  in  hats.  It  was  composed  simply  of 
Irish  lace,  a  twist  of  tulle,  a  mass  of  white 
plumes,  and  a  buckle  that  put  the  evening 
stars  to  shame.  One  long  plume,  drooping 
lightly  over  the  brim  to  Miss  Cynthia's 
shoulder,  might  conceivably  have  stirred 
covetousness  in  the  soul  of  Henry  of  Navarre. 

"We  might  rent  it,"  suggested  Judith, 
mischievously. 

"Not  while  I  'm  wearing  it,"  the  owner 
flashed  back. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that.  But  from  half-past  ten, 
say,  until  three  or  four  in  the  morning — that 's 
the  time  you  'd  naturally  expect  a  hat  of  that 
sort  to  be  out." 

"  If  it  has  to  be  out  at  those  hours,  I  '11 
take  it  out  myself.  If  you  try  me  too  far,  I  '11 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


fifties 

mbia 

treasures 


sit  up  with  you  and  sleep  late  mornings — as 
Judith  does." 

Judith  laughed  and  stooped  to  kiss  the 
flushed  face  under  the  nodding  plumes.  "Get 
my  scarf,"  commanded  Miss  Cynthia,  "and 
the  other  things." 

With  the  delight  of  a  child  she  spread  forth 
her  treasures  for  Carter's  inspection — the  net 
scarf,  so  heavy  with  silver  spangles  that  Miss 
Cynthia's  frail  shoulders  must  bend  a  little 
under  the  burden  of  it;  a  tea-gown,  in  pinks  and 
blues  that  would  have  allured  a  Pompadour; 
a  lace  fan,  a  bottle  of  perfume,  a  pair  of  black 
velvet  slippers  with  rhinestone  buckles,  and  a 
wonderful  veil  of  white  chiffon  that  seemed 
once  to  have  been  laid  over  roses — and  re 
membered  it. 

"That's  good,"  said  Carter,  approving  of 
the  veil.  "That  means  you  're  coming  out  in 
the  car." 

"What?"  demanded  Miss  Cynthia,  with 
astonished  eyes. 

"That  veil.  That's  what  it's  for,  you 
know." 

"It  isn't,"  she  denied.  "It's  merely  to 
protect  my  hat  from  the  dampness  when  I  sit 
out  on  the  porch  in  the  evening." 

"Oh,"  he  returned,  sincerely  disappointed. 
"Won't  you  come?" 

"No,   I  won't." 

"Aunt    Belinda   said    she  wouldn't,  too," 


73 


he  went  on,  in  wheedling  tones,  "but  she  did. 
Everybody  does  what  I  ask  them  to." 

"Except  me,"  she  replied,  pointedly. 
"Those  people  have  spoiled  you.  Their  life 
revolves  about  you  as  the  earth  about  the  sun." 

"Am  I  not,  in  a  way,  the  son  of  their  house 
hold  ?  Should  n't  life  revolve  about  such  as 
I?" 

"  It  should  n't,"  put  in  Judith,  "but  it  does, 
and  not  only  at  Warners'  either." 

Without  being  asked,  she  went  to  her  harp 
in  the  corner  of  the  big  room,  swept  the  strings 
idly,  then  sat  down  to  play.  They  were  in  the 
big  living-room  upstairs  where  Miss  Cynthia 
spent  most  of  her  time.  Breakfast  and 
luncheon  were  served  to  her  there,  but  at  night 
she  insisted  upon  going  down  to  dinner, 
dressed  as  though  for  guests. 

A  screen  concealed  the  cavernous  fireplace 
at  the  end  of  the  long  room,  but  the  candles  on 
the  mantel  brought  into  vivid  relief  the  stag's 
head  upon  the  chimney-piece,  moth-eaten, 
like  many  other  things  about  the  house.  The 
floor  was  bare,  with  only  a  few  small  rugs 
scattered  upon  it.  Fond  of  marine  metaphors, 
Miss  Cynthia  alluded  to  it  as  a  sea  of  floor 
dotted  with  islands  of  rug. 

A  cabinet  in  the  corner  held  a  few  bits  of 
bric-a-brac,  but  one  whole  side  of  the  room  was 
devoted  to  books.  Opposite  the  books,  four 
large  windows,  with  a  glass  door  between  them, 


74 


a  Weaver  of  Dreams 


tmrmonfes  opened  out  upon  the  balcony  that  ran  along 
the  side  of  the  house  and  overlooked  the  gar 
den.  A  door  opposite  the  fireplace  opened 
into  Miss  Cynthia's  bedroom,  which,  in  turn, 
opened  out  upon  the  front  balcony  by  another 
door.  Judith's  two  rooms  were  across  the 
hall. 

Carter  drew  a  long  breath  of  delight  as 
Judith  began  to  play.  She  was  near  the 
window  and  the  moonlight  shone  full  upon  her 
face.  The  rest  of  the  room  was  in  shadow, 
save  for  the  two  candles  that  burned  fitfully 
upon  the  mantel,  flickering  in  the  scented 
breeze  that  floated  in  from  the  garden. 

Deep,  vibrant  chords  broke  out  upon  the 
stillness — full-toned  harmonies  that  appealed 
to  the  soul  of  the  man  as  Judith  herself  ap 
pealed.  She  wore  white,  as  she  usually  chose 
to  do,  but  there  were  crimson  roses  in  her  hair 
and  at  her  belt,  and,  now  and  then,  for  an 
instant,  the  moonlight  won  an  answering  glow 
from  the  heart  of  the  ruby  that  blazed  in  her 
betrothal  ring. 

For  the  thousandth  time  the  man  wondered 
how  it  happened  that  she  loved  him.  During 
the  year  and  more  of  their  engagement,  the 
miracle  of  it  had  not  quite  vanished.  Con 
tinually  she  stirred  him  to  new  allegiance;  she 
kept  his  blood  on  fire  with  ambition.  To  do, 
to  achieve,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  and  to  go  on 
with  fresh  courage  after  every  failure — these 


pillows 

aspirations  came  to  him  subtly,  but  none  the 
less  surely,  from  the  woman  he  loved. 

The  last  full  chord  sounded  through  the 
room,  then,  at  length,  even  the  echo  ceased. 
Judith  still  had  one  hand  upon  her  harp 
strings — the  other  had  fallen  at  her  side. 
She  had  turned  her  face  away  from  the  room 
and  toward  the  moonlight.  Exquisitely  re 
mote,  as  some  far  star,  she  seemed  to  have 
entered  some  fastness  of  her  own  soul,  where 
no  man  might  ever  hope  to  follow. 

"Judith!"  His  voice  broke  upon  her  name. 
She  did  not  answer  and  he  called  again: 
"Judith!" 

She  turned,  with  a  soft  laugh.  "Look, 
dear,"  she  whispered,  "Aunt  Cynthia  is 
asleep!" 

Under  the  nodding  plumes,  indeed,  the  little 
figure  was  still.  Judith  went  to  her  and 
touched  her  gently.  "Come,  dear,  come!" 

"Take  it  off,"  murmured  Miss  Cynthia,  a 
little  fretfully. 

"  Yes,  I  will.     Come." 

With  her  newly-acquired  splendour  almost 
hiding  her  face,  Miss  Cynthia  sleepily  bade 
Carter  good-night.  He  had  the  grace  not  to 
remind  her  that  she  had  threatened  to  sit  up 
until  very  late.  Presently  Judith  came  back. 

"  Let 's  go  out  on  the  balcony,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  tone,  "  then  we  shan't  disturb  her." 

They    tiptoed    out    and    closed    the    door 


75 


Tflnfccr 
Webbing 
plumes 


76 


B  Meaver  of  S>reams 


Jfcatbers 

and  3£i&cr« 

Down 


quietly.  "Oh,  the  night,"  breathed  Judith; 
"the  lovely,  lovely  night!" 

"  Darling,"  said  Carter,  "have  we  pillows  ?" 

"Pillows  !"  repeated  Judith,  in  amazement. 
"For  what?" 

"For  us — for  the  house,  you  know.  Does 
the  bride  buy  'em 'and  have  you  ?" 

She  laughed,  but  the  full,  deep  tenderness 
of  the  undertone  thrilled  him.  "Of  course — 
long  ago!" 

"Feathers?"  he  queried. 

"Indeed  not,"  she  rejoined,  scornfully. 

"What  then?" 

"Eider-down.  Six,  from  Aunt  Cynthia. 
It  was  her  last  extravagance  but  one.  Why  ?" 

"  I  'm  sorry,  in  a  way,"  he  answered,  taking 
her  into  his  arms.  "  I  'm  going  to  have 
feathers,  and  I  wanted  to  give  'em  to  you." 

"Dear,"  murmured  Judith,  to  his  coat- 
collar,  "you  haven't  the  faintest  idea  how 
funny  you  are — nor  how  lovable." 

"  Come  over  here  and  tell  me."  He  led  her 
to  the  swinging  seat  at  the  end  of  the  balcony, 
and  they  sat  there,  repeating  the  lover's  litany 
with  all  its  adorable  nonsense,  until,  as  Miss 
Cynthia  said,  "the  moon  got  tired  and  went  to 
bed,"  thus  shaming  them  to  the  "sweet  sorrow" 
of  parting. 


77 


1 


VI 

Ibouse  of  fbearts 

N  the  peace  and  quiet  of  Sunday  afternoon,     mcct&ent 

Chandler  was  reading  aloud  to  Margery 
from  the  book  Miss  Cynthia  had  sent  him. 
Subtly,  his  deep  voice  lured  unsuspected  har 
monies  from  our  prosaic  English,  and  gave  to 
the  spoken  word  a  melody  wholly  distinct  from 
its  meaning. 

"  It  is  we  who  do  not  understand,  for  that  we 
never  rise  above  the  earth-level  of  our  intellect. 
Let  us  but  ascend  to  the  first  snows  of  the 
mountain,  and  all  inequalities  are  levelled  by 
the  purifying  hand  of  the  horizon  that  opens 
before  us.  What  difference,  then,  between  a 
pronouncement  of  Marcus  Aurelius  and  the 
words  of  a  child  complaining  of  the  cold?  Let 
us  be  humble  and  learn  to  distinguish  between 
accident  and  essence.  Let  not  'sticks  that 
float'  cause  us  to  forget  the  prodigies  of  the 
gulf.  The  most  glorious  thoughts  and  the 
most  degraded  ideas  can  no  more  ruffle  the 
eternal  surface  of  our  soul  than,  amidst  the 
stars  of  Heaven,  Himalaya  or  precipice  can 
alter  the  surface  of  the  earth.  A  look,  a  kiss, 


H  Weaver  ot  Breams 


lacfe  of 
Unteteet 


and  the  certainty  of  a  great  invisible  presence: 
all  is  said,  and  I  know  that  she  who  is  by  my 
side  is  my  equal.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  and  looked  eagerly  at  Margery, 
expecting  to  find  her  face  alight  with  response, 
but  her  blue  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  that 
chilled  his  own  enthusiasm.  She  did  not  seem 
to  notice  that  his  voice  had  ceased.  Pressing 
the  tip  of  a  rosy  forefinger  to  her  short  upper 
lip,  she  politely,  but  ineffectually,  endeavoured 
to  smother  a  yawn. 

Then  she  turned.  "  Surely  that  is  n't  the 
end  of  it?" 

"Yes,"  lied  Chandler,  tactfully.  "What 
more  is  there  to  be  said?" 

Margery  did  n't  know,  and  said  so,  with  a 
dreamy  lack  of  interest  or  comprehension. 
Bees  and  yellow  butterflies  hovered  above  the 
drifts  of  clover  across  the  road;  an  exquisite 
hint  of  honeysuckle  came  from  afar.  The  new 
growth  upon  the  cedars  was  vividly  green,  by 
contrast  with  the  rest,  and  that,  too,  brought 
fragrance,  though  of  another  sort,  when  the 
wind  came  from  the  proper  direction. 

The  little  blue  sailor,  on  the  weather-vane 
at  the  cross-roads,  spun  around  giddily  that 
afternoon,  perched  above  his  golden  arrow. 
Whether  his  seas  of  air  were  calm  or  tempestu 
ous,  whether  the  day  brought  warm  rain  or 
biting  sleet,  the  jaunty  tar  faced  fortune  and 
misfortune  alike,  with  the  same  serene  smile. 


Ibouse  of  t>earts 


79 


Chandler  had  purposely  chosen  the  sailor, 
though  he  wondered,  at  the  time,  if  the 
parallel  were  not  somewhat  too  obvious. 
However,  only  Judith  had  seen  the  likeness 
between  the  mariner,  far  inland,  destined  to 
abide  where  Fate  had  placed  him  until  decay 
claimed  him  for  its  own,  and  Chandler,  longing 
for  life  as  may  only  those  who  are  not  in  the 
thick  of  it,  anchored  by  his  wheeled  chair. 

She  forebore  to  speak  of  it,  though  sometimes 
the  mist  softened  her  dark  eyes  when  she  saw 
Chandler  watching  the  weather-vane,  with 
wistful  pain  plainly  mirrored  upon  his  face. 
She  guessed,  too,  that  now  and  then,  when  the 
wind  blew  straight  from  the  North  and  the 
figure  faced  the  house,  that  the  cheery  smile 
brought  a  bit  of  comfort,  painted  though  it 
was. 

Just  now  the  sailor's  profile  was  turned 
toward  the  veranda  where  the  two  sat.  One 
foot  was  upon  the  edge  of  the  arrow;  the  other 
was  poised  in  mid-air  as  though,  with  a  brisk 
"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  in  answer  to  a  command,  the 
little  man  had  started  forward  and  had  upon 
the  instant  been  overtaken  by  his  destiny. 

"Where  did  you  get  him?"  asked  Margery. 

"  I  had  him  made." 

"  He  's  cunning.  I  should  think  his  clothes 
would  wear  out,  though,  being  outdoors  all  the 
time." 

"  They  do,  but  he  's  more  fortunate  than  the 


TEbe 

little  Slue 

Sailor 


8o 


H  IKaeaver  of  H)reams 


fjapptest 
people 


rest  of  us.  All  he  requires  is  a  fresh  coat  of 
paint,  once  in  two  years." 

"  I  'm  glad  I  can  have  more  than  that,"  she 
laughed.  "I  love  clothes — that  is,  pretty 
ones." 

"  So  do  I,  Margery.     I  like  to  look  at  yours." 

"And  to  button  'em?" 

"And  to  button  'em." 

"  Everything  I  've  got  either  hooks  or  but 
tons  down  the  back,  so  you  '11  have  plenty  to 
do.  Father  used  to  say,  once  in  a  while,  that 
he  understood  how  the  old  man  felt  who  com 
mitted  suicide  because  he  got  'so  blamed  tired 
of  the  eternal  buttonin'  and  unbuttonin'.": 

"One  might,  for  one's  self,"  remarked 
Chandler,  thoughtfully,  "but  the  happiest 
people  in  the  world  are  those  who  serve  others 
rather  than  themselves.  The  more  you  give, 
the  more  you  have;  the  more  you  take,  without 
giving,  the  less  you  have  that  you  can  keep." 

Margery  was  silent.  Presently  she  put  her 
finger  to  her  lip  again,  then  crimsoned  with 
embarrassment  at  Chandler's  comprehending 
smile. 

"  It 's  a  sleepy  day,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  I  've 
often  wondered  whether  Sundays  were  really 
longer  than  other  days  or  whether  they  only 
seem  so." 

"  I   guess  they  're  longer,"  she  murmured. 

"  I  think  so.  If  I  did  n't  have  you  to  look 
at,  I  believe  I  'd  go  to  sleep." 


Ifoouse  of  Ibearts  81 


"  I  can  go  upstairs,"  she  suggested,  "or 
out  for  a  walk." 

"  Better  take  a  walk.  Algernon  must  need 
exercise.  Would  you  mind  getting  me  a 
pillow?" 

When  she  had  brought  it,  Chandler  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes,  simulat 
ing  slumber  until  Margery  had  turned  the 
corner  at  the  cross-roads  and  the  beaming 
little  sailor  had  swiftly  spun  around  on  his 
high  perch  to  follow  her  with  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,  old  man,"  muttered 
Chandler,  "but  she's  free,  and  you  and  I  are 
fixtures." 

Child-hunger  burned  in  his  blood  for  an 
instant,  then  mercifully  died  out.  Margery's 
mere  presence  in  his  house  brought  to  him, 
with  poignant  pain  that  yet  had  in  it  a  hint  of 
sweetness,  the  realisation  of  all  he  had  missed. 
The  sound  of  her  step  upon  the  stair,  the  turn 
of  her  rounded  arm,  the  rustle  of  her  skirts, 
the  dimple  at  her  bare  elbow,  the  music  of  her 
rare  laughter,  the  indefinable  fragrance  that 
surrounded  her  like  an  invisible  garment — 
all  these  meant  to  him,  not  Margery,  but 
Woman  incarnate. 

"To  bear  man  in  agony,"  he  thought;  "to 
nourish  him  at  her  breast,  to  teach  him  most 
of  the  good  that  he  ever  learns,  to  give  her 
self  to  him  through  love  of  him,  to  wait,  to 
pray,  to  beckon  him  upward;  for  ever  giving, 


82 


H  TKHeaver  of  Breams 


Ubc  Ibouc 


sacrificing  yielding — and  what  under  high 
Heaven  do  we  ever  give  her  back?" 

Restlessly,  he  turned  to  the  book  again. 
Dear  little  Margery — of  course  she  could  not 
understand! 

"Of  the  true,  predestined  love  alone,"  he 
read,  "do  I  speak  here.  When  Fate  sends 
forth  the  woman  it  has  chosen  for  us, — sends 
her  forth  from  the  fastnesses  of  the  great 
spiritual  cities  in  which  we,  all  unconsciously, 
dwell,  and  she  awaits  us  at  the  crossing  of  the 
road  we  have  to  traverse  when  the  hour  is 
come — we  are  warned  at  the  first  glance.  Some 
there  are  who  attempt  to  force  the  hand  of 
Fate.  Wildly  pressing  down  their  eyelids,  so 
as  not  to  see  that  which  had  to  be  seen — strug 
gling  with  all  their  puny  strength  against  the 
eternal  forces — they  will  contrive  perhaps  to 
cross  the  road  and  go  toward  another,  sent 
thither,  but  not  for  them." 

Miss  Cynthia  had  not  marked  the  passage, 
but  Chandler  enclosed  it  in  pencilled  brackets. 
Later  on,  he  heavily  underlined  this: 

"  May  it  not  be  during  one  of  those  profound 
moments,  when  his  head  is  pillowed  on  a  wo 
man's  breast,  that  the  hero  learns  to  know 
the  strength  and  steadfastness  of  his  star?" 

Instantly,  The  Hour  came  back — vividly 
alive,  as  though  it  were  yesterday.  Across 
the  grey  web  of  the  intervening  years,  it  moved 
majestically,  as  upon  wings  of  flame.  Pierced 


Ifoouse  ot  Ibearts 


through  and  through  with  torture,  as  it  had 

...  Stroll 

been,  when  his  every  sense  had  been  exquisitely 
alive  to  its  own  hurt,  The  Hour  had  yet 
brought  him  a  certain  divine  ecstasy. 

It  thrilled  his  soul  even  now — mysteriously 
it  summoned,  like  a  bugle-call.  The  heights  to 
which  it  bade  him  were  shrouded  in  mist  and 
inaccessible,  but  the  dweller  in  the  valley,  whose 
spiritual  vision  has,  for  a  moment  of  rapture, 
encompassed  the  region  of  the  high  gods,  must 
for  ever  keep  his  face  turned  upward,  waiting, 
and  even  praying,  for  the  blinding  light. 

Margery  had  gone  down  the  road  that  led 
to  the  river,  humming  to  herself  the  fragment 
of  an  old  song.  Algernon  gambolled  after  her, 
keeping  his  balance  as  well  as  he  might  upon 
unsteady  feet  that  were  too  large  for  the  rest 
of  him.  With  his  nose  to  the  warm  earth, 
he  sniffed  appreciatively  at  the  tempting  trail 
of  chipmunk  and  squirrel,  but  did  not  fail  to 
follow  faithfully  the  small  heels  of  the  Adora 
ble  One  in  blue. 

She  carried  no  parasol,  yet  dragged  her  hat 
carelessly  by  its  flopping  brim,  not  in  the  least 
annoyed  by  the  fact  that  its  wreath  of  pink- 
and-white  clover  had  become  loosened  and  was 
perilously  near  the  dust.  It  bobbed  fantastic 
ally  in  front  of  Algernon,  but  he  never  managed 
to  overtake  it,  though  it  seemed  as  if  it  might 
be  a  pleasant  thing  for  a  puppy  to  chew  upon. 


84 


H  Weaver  ot  Breams 


anl>  a 

JBumbles 

JSee 


At  the  river-bank,  Margery  paused.  One 
path  led  along  the  stream;  the  other  wound 
around  the  foot  of  the  fateful  hill.  The  mere 
memory  of  that  fence  made  her  shudder. 
Algernon,  having  an  inquiring  disposition,  in 
vestigated  a  clover  blossom  to  which  a  bumble 
bee  was  clinging,  then  swiftly  repented  in 
piercing  wails. 

"Oh,"  said  Margery,  softly.  "Poor  little 
doggie!  Come  here!"  Digging  her  heels  into 
the  soft  earth,  she  descended  the  river-bank, 
with  the  whining  puppy  following  her,  scooped 
up  a  handful  of  soft  mud,  and  plastered  it 
over  the  injured  nose.  "There!  Just  breathe 
through  your  mouth  a  little  while  and 
you  '11  be  all  right."  Algernon  proceeded  to 
breathe  through  his  mouth,  as  requested.  In 
deed,  he  had  to,  if  he  breathed  at  all,  for 
Margery  had  been  generous  with  her  mother 
earth. 

She  washed  her  hands,  and,  in  the  care-free 
manner  of  the  young,  wiped  them  upon  her 
lace-trimmed  petticoat.  She  sat  down  under 
a  tree,  thinking  as  she  did  so  that  she  was  just 
where  she  had  been  a  little  over  a  week  ago 
with  Judith.  As  she  watched  the  placid  river, 
rippling  peacefully  toward  the  lake  below,  she 
remembered  the  rose-petals,  and  began  to 
wonder  about  The  Prince. 

"She's  found  hers,"  she  mused,  idly,  re 
membering  what  Chandler  had  said  about 


Ube  Ibouse  ot  Ibearts 


Judith's  approaching  marriage.  It  was  Mr. 
Keith  who  had  given  her  the  dog.  He  had 
seemed  so  much  taller  and  older  than  Marge/y 
that  she  had  been  the  least  bit  afraid  of  him— 
until  he  spoke. 

"  I  suppose  that  big  ruby  is  her  engagement 
ring,"  she  thought.  "  I  wonder  why  he  did  n't 
give  her  a  diamond!"  Then  she  added  to  her 
self,  with  sudden  feminine  perception,  "  I  guess 
she  'd  rather  have  the  ruby — it 's  more  like 
her,  someway." 

Algernon  was  sitting  close  to  Margery  with 
his  tongue  hanging  out.  He  was  breathing 
painfully,  but  he  had  ceased  to  whine.  "  Bad 
boy,"  she  said,  reprovingly,  "  that 's  what  you 
get  for  being  curious.  Come  along  now,  and 
forget  about  it." 

Much  chastened  in  manner,  he  toddled  after 
her,  along  the  road  which  led  around  the  base 
of  the  hill.  Presently  she  came  to  a  bit  of 
level  ground.  "Upon  my  word,"  said  Mar 
gery,  to  herself,  "  if  there  is  n't  a  new  house ! 
Who'd  think  anyone  would  be  building  here! 
We  '11  investigate  it,  Algernon — I  love  new 
houses,  don't  you?" 

Evidently  Algernon  did,  though  he  had  to 
be  assisted  up  the  four  or  five  rude  steps  which 
led  into  the  bungalow.  1 1  was  made  of  cement, 
with  a  green  tiled  roof,  and  all  the  outside 
woodwork  painted  the  same  soft  green.  The 
plastering  was  done  and  the  floors  were  laid, 


86 


H  Ideaver  of  2>rcams 


JErp  lores 
tbe  View 
t)ouee 


so  she  could  easily  imagine  what  the  house 
would  be  like  when  it  was  finished. 

There  was  a  large  living-room,  which  opened 
out  upon  the  veranda,  and  a  small  room  off 
the  living-room  which  she  shrewdly  supposed 
would  be  someone's  den.  A  big  stone  fireplace 
took  up  almost  the  entire  end  of  the  largest 
room,  and  a  space  was  marked  off  at  either  side 
for  seats,  to  make  an  inglenook.  "  I  suppose 
the  lids  of  the  seats  will  come  up,"  she  thought, 
"and  they'll  keep  the  coal  and  wood  for  the 
fire  in  'em — that 's  what  I  'd  do." 

Separated  from  the  rest  of  the  house  by  a 
narrow  hall  was  a  suite  which  was  evidently  a 
bedroom  and  two  dressing-rooms.  Each  of 
the  dressing-rooms  had  a  bath  opening  from  it 
and  the  larger  and  sunnier  of  the  two  dressing- 
rooms  had  a  huge  closet  in  it. 

"  Oh,  my,"  said  Margery,  to  herself.  "That  '11 
be  her  closet,  whoever  she  is.  Lucky  woman ! 
Come  on,  Algernon,  let 's  find  the  dining-room 
and  kitchen." 

Absorbed  in  the  dining-room,  the  suite 
which  was  evidently  for  a  guest,  being  con 
nected  with  the  den  by  another  hall,  and 
mildly  interested  in  the  kitchen  and  pantry, 
Margery  did  not  hear  the  purr  of  an  approach 
ing  automobile  that,  with  a  final  wheeze, 
paused  at  the  entrance.  When  she  heard 
voices  in  the  house,  she  was  at  first  frightened, 
then  confused.  Of  course  it  would  be  the 


people  who  owned  the  house  —  or  curious 
passers-by  like  herself. 

"Rather  awkward,"  she  thought,  "even  at 
the  best.  I  '11  have  to  go  through  the  living- 
room,  and  they  're  right  in  it." 

Remembering  her  unhappy  experience  upon 
the  hill,  she  did  not  attempt  the  jump  that 
would  have  landed  her  in  the  sand  outside 
the  kitchen  door,  where,  as  yet,  there  were  no 
steps.  "  I  'd  break  my  ankle  if  I  did  it," 
she  continued,  to  herself,  "and  have  to  be 
carried  home.  Come  on,  doggie!" 

The  voices  had  ceased  in  the  living-room. 
Carter  had  taken  Judith  into  his  arms  with  a 
half-whispered:  "Please,  Princess  —  kiss  me!" 
And  Judith  had  yielded,  in  impassioned  an 
swer,  never  guessing  that  this  one  supreme 
moment  was  to  mark  the  end  of  her  absolute 
faith  in  him. 

How  seldom  do  we  recognise  the  "last 
things,"  as  they  confront  us  !  Could  we  know, 
as  we  nod  carelessly  to  a  passing  friend,  that 
our  eyes  are  never  to  look  into  his  again,  would 
we  not  pause  for  an  instant  to  say  farewell? 
That  final  handclasp  —  would  it  not  be  closer? 
That  last  letter  —  would  it  not  be  less  hastily 
written?  That  last  embrace,  that  last  kiss  — 
oh,  ye  who  love  us,  how  the  tears  would  choke 
us  as  we  tried  to  say  "good-bye!" 

Judith  broke  away  from  him,  her  face  flam 
ing.  Margery  stood  in  the  open  door,  smiling 


H  Wleaver  ot  Dreams 


•Cbe  f  itet 
IPisitot 


because  she  saw  friends  instead  of  strangers. 
Carter  turned,  laughed,  a  little  awkwardly, 
then  Judith,  with  her  shamed  eyes  seeking  his, 
saw  a  look  there  that  she  had  never  seen  before. 
His  face  seemed  subtly  to  change;  it  was  not 
Carter,  but  another  man  whom  she  did  not 
know — and  never  would  know.  As  quickly 
as  it  had  come,  it  passed. 

Judith  was  the  first  to  speak.  "We  came 
over  to  measure  for  curtains,"  she  said,  in  her 
cool,  high-bred  voice. 

"Oh,"  returned  Margery.  "Is  it  your 
house?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Carter,  clearing  his  throat. 
"Our  house."  He  smiled  at  Judith  as  he  spoke, 
but  her  heart  was  still  cold  with  the  prescience 
of  impending  catastrophe. 

"  It 's  lovely  to  find  you  here,"  she  went  on, 
striving  valiantly  for  self-possession.  "  You  're 
our  first  visitor — is  n't  she,  Carter?" 

He  nodded  and  turned  away,  toward  the 
fireplace. 

"Come,"  said  Judith.  "Let  me  show  it 
to  you."  Trembling  a  little,  she  pointed  out 
the  door  leading  to  the  veranda,  explained  the 
plan  for  the  inglenook,  indicated  Carter's  den, 
then  took  her  back  through  the  hall  to  the 
sunny  side  of  the  house. 

"This  is—  '  she  hesitated,  and  her  high 
colour  came  back — "our  room.  We  each 
have  a  dressing-room  and  bath  and  I  have  a 


tbouse  ot  ifoearts 


perfectly  tremendous  closet,  big  enough  for 
two  trunks.  One  dressing-room  will  be  pink 
and  the  other  blue,  but  this  room  is  to  be  as 
white  as  the  driven  snow — furniture,  wood 
work,  wall,  draperies,  rugs,  everything.  Not 
even  a  hint  of  colour,  nor  a  picture — only 
a  few  casts  and  perhaps  a  plaster  bas-relief, 
ivory-tinted  for  contrast.  I  've  wanted  a 
white  floor,  waxed, but  it  does  n't  seem  practical, 
and  tile  is  too  cold,  and  too  much  like  a  hos 
pital,  so  I  'm  going  to  cover  it  with  white  rugs." 

"It  will  be  lovely,"  said  Margery,  politely, 
but  without  enthusiasm. 

"  I  think  so.     Did  you  see  the  dining-room?" 

"  Yes.     I  've  been  all  through  the  house." 

"Then  will  you  excuse  me  while  I  measure 
these  windows?  It  won't  take  long." 

"  Certainly." 

Margery  went  back  into  the  living-room, 
where  Carter  still  stood,  moodily  looking  into 
the  empty  fireplace.  "Your  dog's  nose  is — 
well,  soiled,"  he  said,  without  looking  around. 

"A  bee  stung  him  and  so  I  put  mud  on  his 
nose." 

"Perhaps  the  sting  is  still  there.  If  so,  it 
will  have  to  be  taken  out." 

"Mr.  Chandler  will  take  it  out.  I  think 
he  can." 

"  If  he  can't,  I  will." 

"  You  're  very  kind,"  returned  Margery, 
politely.  She  sauntered  out  upon  the  ve- 


flDarger? 
ana  Carter 


H  TKHeaver  of  Breams 


•fcow  tbe 
•bouse 
Idas 
IRamefc 


randa.  Carter  followed  her,  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

"Do  you  still  call  him  'Algernon'?" 

"Yes.     'Nonny' for  short." 

"That's  better— I  don't  like  'Algernon.'" 

"  I  did  n't  either.  That 's  why  I  named 
him  that — he  was  such  an  abominable  little 
beast  at  first.  But  since  I  've  grown  fond  of 
him,  the  name  seems  nice,  too." 

Margery  smiled  as  she  spoke — a  little  girlish 
smile,  full  of  the  winsome  innocence  of  youth. 
Just  then  Judith  appeared. 

"We  were  talking  about  the  dog's  name/' 
Margery  continued.  "  He 's  still  Algernon 
and  it  seems  as  though  it  were  going  to  stay  by 
him  until  the  bitter  end." 

"Why  bitter?"  queried  Carter. 

"A  dog's  life  is  a  phrase  that  implies  bitter 
ness,"  Judith  suggested. 

"Have  you  named  your  house?"  asked 
Margery. 

"  Yes."  Judith's  dark  eyes  kindled  in  answer 
to  some  inner  flame.  "We  call  it  'The  House 
of  Hearts.'" 

"  It 's  cunning — but  why?" 

"From  a  bit  of  verse  we  happened  to  read 
together  the  day  we  began  to  plan  it: 

"  Little  sunset  House  of  Hearts 

Standing  all  alone, 
I  could  come  and  sweep  the  leaves 
From  your  stepping  stone." 


Ube  Tfoouse  of  Dearts 


Her  full,  deep  contralto  lingered  lovingly 
upon  the  words.  Her  voice  had  a  peculiar, 
throaty  quality  that  sometimes  reminded 
Carter  of  a  'cello. 

"Shall  we  go  now?"  he  asked,  of  Judith. 

"Yes.  Won't  you  come  with  us,  Margery, 
and  stay  to  tea?  We  'd  love  to  have  you." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  mustn't.  Mr.  Chandler 
will  be  lonely  without  me." 

"  So  shall  we,"  responded  Carter,  consciously 
gallant. 

"Yes,  but  he's  lame.  If  it  isn't  out  of 
your  way,  will  you  take  me  home?" 

"With  pleasure." 

Judith  and  Margery  took  the  back  seat  and 
talked  commonplaces  until  they  came  to  the 
little  house  at  the  cross-roads.  When  Mar 
gery  got  out,  Judith  followed  her,  and  took 
the  front  seat  beside  Carter.  They  waved  a 
good-bye  to  Margery,  then  Carter  turned  to 
Judith  with  the  old,  loving  smile,  as  they 
started  off. 

Apparently,  all  was  as  before,  yet  Judith 
spent  a  wakeful  night  in  wonder — and  fear. 
She  had  the  sense  of  impending  change. 

Carter  slept  soundly,  as  was  his  wont,  but  he 
dreamed  of  The  House  of  Hearts,  for  the  first 
time  with  no  Judith  in  it.  Instead,  it  was  full 
of  Margerys,  in  blue  gowns  and  clover-trimmed 
hats,  smiling  at  him  from  every  room,  framed 
in  every  doorway,  bidding  his  reluctant  feet 


Impending 
Cbange 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


tdbcn 
Carter 


to  follow  wherever  they  chose  to  lead.    When 

he  woke,  the  sun  was  shining,  but  it  took  the 
.  ...  ... 

splash  of  cool  water  upon  his  face  to  banish 

the  phantoms  of  the  night  and  bring  back  the 
clear,  sane  facts  of  everyday. 


VII 

"Roman's  Work" 

WHAT  were  you  layin'  out  to  do  to-day, 
Father?" 

"Nothin'.  I  thought  maybe  after  a  while 
I  'd  tinker  a  spell,  but  I  don't  feel  to  do  nothin' 
right  now." 

Aunt  Belinda's  smooth  forehead  contracted 
into  a  frown.  She  came  out  on  the  porch  with 
a  pan  fuil  of  peas,  sat  down  in  her  low  rocker, 
and  began  to  shell  them. 

"Why?"  demanded  Uncle  Henry,  in  swift 
defence  against  the  implied  reproach. 

"Seems  to  me  you  might  be  doin'  somethin'. 
I  work  all  day,  week  days  and  Sundays,  and 
you  set  and  set." 

"  I  don't,  neither.  Don't  I  milk  the  cow  and 
take  care  of  the  horse  and  feed  the  pigs  and 
keep  his  ottymobile  shined  up?  If  you  think 
that  ain't  work,  you  'd  better  try  it." 

"  I  will,"  rejoined  Aunt  Belinda,  with  ill- 
concealed  sarcasm.  "After  I  get  the  beds 
made  and  the  dishes  washed  and  the  house 
swept  and  dusted  and  his  litter  picked  up  from 
all  over  upstairs  and  the  rabbits  and  pigeons 


93 


plans  foe 
tbe  S>as 


94 


H  Meaner  of  Dreams 


Changing 
places 


and  chickens  and  dogs  fed  and  the  wash 
counted,  I  '11  shine  up  the  ottymobile.  I  'd 
admire  to  do  it." 

"Pshaw!"  grunted  the  old  man.  "You 
ain't  got  nothin'  to  do.  That  is,"  he  added, 
hastily,  "nothin'  much." 

"Lemme  change  places  with  you,"  she 
suggested.  "Mornin's  I  '11  wake  you  up  and 
ask  you  if  it  ain't  most  time  for  breakfast. 
After  you  get  up,  I  '11  have  another  nap,  then 
I  '11  dress  myself  and  come  out  and  eat.  If  I 
want  more  sausages  or  more  pancakes,  you  '11 
fry  'em  for  me,  and  after  him  and  me  get 
through  with  our  breakfast,  you  can  set  down 
and  have  yours  while  I  look  at  the  paper. 

"Then  I  '11  go  out  and  walk  round  in  the  sun 
for  a  spell,  set  down  and  milk  the  cow,  brush 
up  the  horse,  and  get  him  some  oats,  then  come 
back  and  set  on  the  porch.  Meanwhile  you  '11 
be  clearin'  off  the  table  and  washin'  the  dishes 
and  straightenin'  up  the  kitchen,  then,  after 
you  've  made  the  beds,  and  swept  and  dusted 
the  house,  you  c'n  come  out  and  set  on  the 
porch  till  I  've  got  rested  enough  from  combin' 
the  horse  to  eat  again. 

"You  c'n  get  me  a  nice  dinner  and  after 
I  've  et  it,  I  '11  go  in  the  settin'  room  and  lie 
down  and  take  a  little  nap  while  you  're 
washin'  up  the  dishes  and  settin'  the  table  for 
supper.  After  you  get  through,  and  ready 
to  rest  an  hour  or  so,  I  '11  go  down  to  the  post- 


95 

office  and  talk  politics  with  the  lazy  loafers 
settin'  around  on  soap-boxes  and  explainin' 
how  the  country  is  goin'  to  the  dogs  and  the 
President  ain't  never  done  nothin'  that 's 
right.  After  I  've  come  back  and  rested  from 
my  walk,  I  '11  look  at  the  ottymobile  and  if  it 
needs  wipin',  I  '11  wipe  it.  By  that  time  I  '11 
be  hungry  again  and  you  c'n  have  my  supper 
ready.  After  I  've  et  it,  I  '11  set  on  the  porch 
while  you  wash  the  dishes  and  after  you  get 
'em  done,  it  '11  be  time  for  me  to  go  to  bed." 

"La  sakes,  Mother,  how  you  do  take  on! 
All  that  ain't  nothin'  but  woman's  work.  It 
don't  amount  to  shucks." 

"Woman's  work!"  snorted  Aunt  Belinda. 
The  dull  colour  rose  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 
"Who  made  it  'woman's  work'?" 

"God  did,"  returned  Uncle  Henry,  piously. 
He  had  the  air  of  one  imparting  information 
to  an  inquiring  child. 

"Hump!  You'd  better  say  the  Evil  One 
did  it  and  not  be  layin'  it  to  Providence. 
You  'd  come  a  heap  sight  nearer  the  truth!" 

"Men  works  outside  the  house  and  women 
works  inside  it,"  resumed  Uncle  Henry,  after 
a  thoughtful  interval.  "Things  is  divided  up 
equal." 

"  I  ain't  seen  it  so,"  she  retorted.  "  I  ain't 
never  seen  a  man  yet  that  was  willin'  to  do 
what  a  woman  would  call  a  good  day's  work. 
Ain't  I  lived  on  a  farm?  Don't  I  know?" 


96 


H  Weaver  of  H>reams 


Ube 
twtvestfn' 


"But  the  harvestin',  Belinda — don't  you 
recall  that?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  pointedly,  "I  recall 
it.  I  recall  gettin'  up  at  four  in  the  mornin' 
and  gettin'  breakfast  for  the  hands.  I  re 
call  spendin'  the  mornin'  gettin'  dinner  for  the 
hands,  the  afternoon  washin'  up  and  gettin' 
supper  for  the  hands,  and  the  evenin'  washin' 
up  while  the  hands  sets  outside  and  tells  how 
hard  they  've  worked.  I  recall  the  big  kettle 
full  of  pancake  batter,  the  preservin'  kettle 
full  of  doughnuts,  and  the  barrel  of  cider  on 
the  porch,  some  bein'  carried  to  the  hands 
about  ten  in  the  mornin'  as  they  toiled  in  the 
fields.  I  recall  the  whole  hams  and  the  loaves 
of  bread  and  the  wash-boiler  full  of  potatoes. 
I  've  peeled  so  many  potatoes  in  my  time  that 
it 's  a  wonder  I  ain't  ashamed  to  look  one  of 
'em  in  the  eye." 

Uncle  Henry  laughed  with  the  assumption 
of  heartiness,  but  she  refused  to  be  mollified. 

"You  can't  tell  me  nothin'  about  the 
harvestin',  for  I  know  it  all,  backwards  and 
forwards.  A  man  '11  set  on  a  plough  and  let 
a  horse  drag  him  around  a  field  all  day  and 
come  back  and  tell  the  women  folks  how  hard 
he  's  worked.  And  the  reapin'  and.  the  makin' 
hay — I  've  seen  a  man  pile  up  just  enough  hay 
to  make  a  nice  bed  for  himself,  and  pull  his 
hat  over  his  eyes  and  lay  down  and  go  to  sleep 
till  it 's  time  for  the  next  meal." 


'Woman's  limorfe" 


97 


"  I  was  sick  that  day,  Belinda,  and  besides, 
I  had  n't  been  layin'  down  more  'n  a  minute 
or  two  when  you  come  and  woke  me  up." 

"  If  I  had  n't  woke  you  up,  we  would  n't  have 
had  any  hay  that  year.  There  was  a  black 
cloud  the  size  of  the  Baptist  Church  comin'  as 
fast  as  it  could." 

"  But  it  did  n't  rain,  Belinda,"  he  returned, 
plaintively. 

"Twa'n't  my  fault  it  passed  over." 

"No,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  I  reckon  not.  It 
was  more  'n  fifteen  years  ago  that  I  laid  down 
in  my  own  hay-field  to  rest  for  a  spell  because  I 
was  sick  and  you  ain't  through  remindin'  me  of 
it  yet.  'T  ain't  no  crime,  as  I  see.  And  if  you 
could  have  made  it  rain,  you  would  'uv." 

"We'd  had  a  terrible  dry  spell,"  she  said, 
half  to  herself. 

"  I  reckon  I  know  the  weather  as  well  as 
anybody  does,  and  if  it  'd  been  goin'  to  rain, 
I  would  n't  'uv  laid  down,  sick  as  I  was. 
Havin'  a  wife  to  take  care  of,  I  'd  'uv  kept  up." 

Aunt  Belinda  emptied  the  shelled  peas  out 
of  her  apron  into  the  pan  at  her  side.  She 
stared  at  him  over  the  steel  rim  of  her  spec 
tacles.  Her  jaw  had  dropped  and  her  mouth 
was  wide  open,  but  no  speech  came  forth — 
undoubtedly  because  no  speech  at  her  com 
mand  seemed  adequate. 

"What  about  him?"  demanded  Uncle  Henry, 
hastily  changing  the  subject.  "I  ain't  heard 


•Rapping 
in  tbe 


98 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


you  criticise  him  for  not  workin',  and  he  's  got 
the  easiest  time  of  anybody  I  ever  knew.  I  've 
been  in  his  office  and  there  ain't  nothin'  in  it 
but  a  bookcase  and  a  couple  of  desks  and  one 
of  them  machines  that  writes  letters.  He  's 
even  got  a  woman  to  run  that  for  him.  Morn- 
in's  he  sets  there  and  tells  her  what  to  write 
and  she  writes  it,  and  afternoons  he  just  talks 
to  people.  Do  you  call  that  workin'?" 

"  He  ain't  my  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"Neither  am  I.  I  'm  nothin'  but  a  relative 
by  marriage." 

"  Relatives  by  marriage  are  the  most  tryin' 
of  any  of  'em,"  she  observed,  "and  that's 
sayin'  a  pile.  If  there  's  anythin'  on  earth  that 
can  be  more  tryin'  than  any  kind  of  a  relative, 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  relatives  by 
marriage  comes  first — easy." 

Uncle  Henry  cleared  his  throat  and  turned 
restlessly  in  his  chair.  Then  he  began  to 
twirl  his  thumbs — a  sure  sign  of  mental  agita 
tion.  The  wife  of  his  bosom  sat  very  erect 
with  a  spot  of  bright  colour  upon  either  cheek. 
She  bristled,  as  it  were,  with  resentment. 

"As  I  was  sayin',"  she  went  on,  "he  ain't 
my  own  flesh  and  blood  nor  even  a  relative  by 
marriage.  As  long  as  he  pays  his  board 
regular,  'tain't  none  of  my  business  so  long  as 
I  have  reason  to  believe  he  come  by  it  honest. 
Except  for  combin'  the  horse  and  milkin'  the 
cow,  he  ain't  got  it  no  easier  than  you  have. 


99 

La  me,"  she  sighed.  "  I  wish  I  did  n't  have 
nothin'  to  do  but  to  go  down-town  into  a  nice 
office  every  day  and  put  my  feet  up  on  a  desk, 
and  say ' 

"Belinda!"  interrupted  Uncle  Henry,  in 
amazement.  % 

"  I  was  just  quotin',  that  is,  I  was  just  goin' 
to  quote,  from  you  and  from  him.  Don't  you 
remember  the  day  you  and  him  was  buildin' 
the  pigeon-house  and  kept  hittin'  your  thumbs 
instead  of  the  nails  you  was  drivin'  at?  And 
the  day  his  puppy  fell  off  a  chair  into  a  pail  of 
milk  and  drownded  itself  and  ruined  the  milk 
so  's  it  had  to  be  fed  to  the  pigs  ?  I  was 
privileged  to  be  settin'  down  in  the  kitchen  for 
a  few  minutes  while  I  was  pittin'  cherries  for 
a  pie  and  to  hear  the  language  that  was  spoke 
on  my  porch  by  both  of  you." 

"  I  ain't  makin'  no  remarks  about  your 
quotations.  I  was  wonderin'  how  any  modest, 
decent  woman  could  want  to  put  her  feet  on  a 
man's  desk." 

'"  I  did  n't  say  I  wanted  to.  I  said  I  wished 
I  did  n't  have  nothin'  to  do  but  that.  Can't 
you  hear  straight  ?  If  you  can't,  you  'd  better 
buy  yourself  an  ear-trumpet." 

"  Don't  want  no  ear-trumpet,"  murmured 
Uncle  Henry,  sadly.  "  I  hear  enough  as  't  is — 
more  'n  enough,  sometimes." 

The  peas  rattled  into  the  pan.  The  fresh, 
pungent  odour  of  the  pods  came  gratefully  to 


100 


H  Meaner  ot  Breams 


B  pretty 
Sigbt 


his  nostrils.  A  blue  pigeon,  its  iridescent  neck 
gleaming  in  the  sun,  fluttered  down  to  the 
sunken  tile  for  a  drink  of  cool  water.  In  the 
distance  the  chickens  clucked  cheerfully. 

"Speakin'  of  relatives,"  resumed  Aunt 
Belinda,  with  a  sigh,  "and  more  especially  ot 
relatives  by  marriage,  there  ain't  nothin'  that 
can  be  as  exasperatin'  as  a  husband — without 
half  tryin'.  'Tain't  no  trouble  to  'em  at  all, 
and  likewise,  'tain't  no  trouble  to  'em  to  be 
decent." 

The  shaft  glanced  aside,  harmlessly.  Uncle 
Henry  was  watching  the  pigeon.  "  If  there  's 
any  prettier  sight  on  earth  than  a  bird  drink- 
in',"  he  mused,  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I 
mind  me  of  the  time  you  and  me  was  drivin'  to 
Jonesville  in  the  Spring,  when  all  the  fruit  trees 
was  in  blossom,  and  there  was  a  pair  of  red- 
birds  buildin'  their  nest  in  a  crab-tree  by  the 
road.  I  can  see  their  wings  now,  in  the  green 
and  the  white,  and  smell  the  apple  blossoms 
and  hear  'em  makin'  love  to  each  other,  not 
singin'  much,  but  just  chirpin'.  We  coulan't 
understand  what  they  was  sayin',  but  they 
could.  I  reckon  it  all  means  the  same  thing 
as  a  man  takin'  a  woman  into  his  arms  and 
whisperin'  to  her  that  he  loves  her." 

"  I  reckon  it  does,"  replied  Aunt  Belinda, 
softly. 

"And  when  we  was  comin'  back,  there  was 
the  same  two  birds.  She  was  settin'  on  a  stone 


'Woman's  Worfe" 


101 


TUncIe 


in  the  brook,  drinkin',  and  throwin'  her  pretty 
head  back  like  she  was  givin'  thanks  for  every 
drop  of  the  cool  water.  And  he  was  settin'  up 
in  the  apple  blossoms,  with  his  head  on  one 
side,  singin'  to  her.  And  while  we  was  watch- 
in,'  she  come  back  to  him  and  they  went  into 
the  apple  blossoms  together.  Seems  a'most  as 
if  't  was  yesterday." 

"Yes,"  sighed  the  old  wife.     "It  does." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  pigeon  flew 
away  and  a  pair  of  white  ones  came  to  the 
deep,  cool  pool  in  the  grass,  cooing  to  one 
another  while  they  drank — shy,  half-murmured 
notes  of  the  world's  great  love-song  that 
sounded  through  the  hills  and  valleys,  and  to 
which  even  the  worms  in  the  earth  must  answer 
because  it  was  June. 

"  If  you  want  me  to  work,"  resumed  Uncle 
Henry,  with  an  air  of  patient  resignation, 
"  I  c'n  take  the  kitchen  clock  apart  and  put  it 
together  again.  I  ain't  done  it  for  quite  a 
spell  now  and  it  don't  seem  to  me  it  strikes 
as  brisk  as  it  did." 

"No,  Henry,  the  clock  strikes  plenty  brisk 
enough  for  me.  You  can  carry  these  pods  to 
the  chickens,  if  you  like,  and  then  feed  the 
pigeons,  and  I  '11  get  dinner.  After  you  've 
had  your  afternoon  nap,  if  you  don't  mind, 
I  wish  you  'd  hitch  up  and  take  me  over 
to  Miss  Bancroft's.  I  want  her  receipt  for 
puttin'  up  strawberries  and  that  puddin'  he 


IO2 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


trials 


had  there  the  other  night  that  he  was  tellin' 
me  about." 

"All  right,  Belinda."  Then  he  asked,  with 
fresh  interest:  "What  are  we  goin'  to  have  for 
dinner?" 

"Salt  pork  with  cream  gravy  and  boiled 
potatoes  and  these  peas.  I  thought  mebbe  I 
might  stir  up  a  few  pancakes  and  put  'em 
together  with  jell  and  sprinkle  some  powdered 
sugar  on  top.  I  ain't  used  up  all  of  last  year's 
jell  yet." 

A  pleased  expression  settled  down  upon 
Uncle  Henry's  face,  destined  to  abide  there  until 
it  was  time  to  hitch  up  the  horse.  Obediently 
he  took  the  pan  of  pods  and  started  toward 
the  chicken-yard.  Aunt  Belinda  took  off  her 
spectacles  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"He  is  tryin',"  she  thought,  "but  I  reckon 
the  Lord  meant  for  us  to  have  our  trials  mixed 
up  in  everythin'  instead  of  comin'  separate. 
Anyway,  I  ain't  heathen  enough  to  think  any 
of  us  gets  things  that  ain't  meant." 

When  he  returned,  with  the  empty  pan,  she 
was  singing  "Rock  of  Ages"  in  a  quavering 
soprano  which  scarcely  made  the  composer's 
intention  evident,  but  had  a  cheery  sound, 
nevertheless.  Uncle  Henry  filled  the  pan 
with  the  corn  which  Carter  bought  already 
shelled,  to  save  trouble,  and  dragged  his  chair 
to  the  edge  of  the  porch.  When  the  first  hand 
ful  of  corn  struck  the  brown  earth,  around  the 


103 


steps,  a  cloud  of  pigeons  descended  with  a 
pleasant  rush  and  flutter.  They  conversed  ^,"( 
loudly  in  their  own  language  as  they  ate  and 
Uncle  Henry  shrewdly  surmised  that  they 
were  expressing  gratitude  for  the  kindness  that 
provided  corn  so  generously  at  regular  hours. 
"That's  about  all  they  could  be  sayin',"  he 
thought,  "except  that  it 's  a  nice  day  and  that 
they  're  much  obliged  for  the  water." 

The  carrier-pigeon  held  himself  a  little  apart 
from  the  rest.  He  ate  less  greedily  and 
seemed  scarcely  to  notice  the  varied  murmur 
around  him.  As  a  great  man  in  a  crowd,  he 
chose  to  be  solitary  in  spite  of  it  and  to  com 
mune  with  his  inner  self,  rather  than  with  his 
fellows. 

He  was  a  young  bird  but  he  was  learning 
that  at  sunrise  he  must  go  to  his  master's 
window  and  wait,  cooing  upon  the  sill,  till 
the  window  was  opened  and  a  message  tied 
under  his  wing.  Then  he  must  go  East,  as 
the  morning  itself  went,  over  the  dusty  road 
where  the  ferns  and  wild  roses  were  thickest, 
across  the  river,  through  the  valley,  and  above 
a  field  of  clover  to  the  big  white  house  sur 
rounded  by  a  box  hedge  that  breathed  pungent 
odours  afar.  The  other  window  was  upon  the 
shady  side  of  the  house.  Here,  too,  he  must 
coo  and  tap  upon  the  screen  with  his  bill  until 
a  woman's  hand,  upon  which  a  ruby  glowed, 
reached  out  from  a  filmy  mass  of  lace  and 


IO4 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Content* 
ment 


brought  him  corn.  When  the  message  had 
been  taken  from  him  and  another  put  in  its 
place,  he  must  retrace  his  flight  to  the  window 
from  whence  he  started,  where  again  there 
would  be  corn. 

Having  these  things  to  muse  upon,  should 
not  a  bird  separate  himself  from  the  common 
flock,  to  consider  the  mysterious  workings  of 
destiny,  and  to  observe  the  precise  payment 
that  followed  labour  well  done?  He  was 
the  first  to  fly  away,  after  he  had  eaten  and 
drunk  to  his  satisfaction.  The  others  followed 
shortly,  though  corn  was  still  sprinkled  upon 
the  ground — not  even  a  pigeon  went  hungry 
from  Uncle  Henry's  door. 

"Dinner!"  called  Aunt  Belinda,  from  the 
savoury  recesses  of  the  kitchen,  and  Uncle 
Henry  went  in,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  to 
greet  her  with  the  fond  look  which  men  bestow 
upon  women  about  to  offer  them  food. 

Filled  with  the  same  sort  of  content  that 
diffused  itself  among  the  pigeons,  he  lay  down, 
after  dinner,  for  his  "forty  winks,"  while  she 
washed  the  dishes  and  put  the  kitchen  into 
the  perfect  order  which  secretly  delighted  her 
housewifely  soul. 

While  he  was  hitching  the  old  sorrel  horse 
to  the  dilapidated  buggy,  she  changed  her 
blue  calico  gown  for  a  fresh  black-and-white 
percale  and  locked  up  the  house  as  carefully  as 
if  they  were  going  to  Europe  for  six  months. 


'Woman's  Worfc" 


105 


"  You  had  n't  intended  me  to  go  to  Miss 

r>  ft  •    i  11  -M,         i  -^»      i 

Bancrofts  with  you,  had  you,  Mother?     he     cans  on 
asked,  as  they  started. 

"No.  You  c'n  drive  back  to  the  post- 
office  and  get  my  magazine  and  a  couple  of 
stamps.  I  've  been  meanin'  to  write  some 
letters  all  the  week  but  I  've  been  so  driv'  I 
ain't  got  round  to  it.  You  come  back  for  me 
in  an  hour  and  mebbe  we  '11  drive  a  spell — 
it 's  such  a  pretty  day." 

"All  right,  Mother."  He  was  so  glad  that 
he  was  not  to  be  taken  to  Miss  Bancroft's 
that  his  burden  seemed  light  indeed.  He 
was  not,  as  he  now  and  then  remarked,  "a 
visitin'  man." 

"  It 's  a  comfort  to  go  and  see  lame  folks," 
Aunt  Belinda  said,  as  they  stopped  in  front  of 
the  big  white  house.  "  You  know  before  you 
go  in  that  they  're  home — they  ain't  gaddin'." 
None  the  less,  she  politely  made  the  usual 
inquiry  of  the  maid  who  opened  the  door. 

"  Yes'm.  Miss  Judith  is  home,  too.  I  guess 
they  'd  want  you  to  go  right  up." 

The  two  were  in  the  shady  corner  of  the 
upper  balcony.  Judith  was  embroidering  her 
wedding  gown  and  Miss  Cynthia  was  reading 
aloud  from  a  book  which  she  instantly  dropped 
when  Mrs.  Warner  appeared. 

"This  is  lovely  of  you,"  said  Miss  Cynthia, 
kindly,  offering  her  hand.  "  You  '11  excuse 
my  not  rising?" 


io6 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


TTbe 

DesfreO 
IRecipe 


"Certainly.     How  do  you  do?" 

With  a  bow  to  Judith,  she  sank  into  the 
offered  chair.  "Henry  had  some  errands  to 
the  postoffice,  so  I  said  I  'd  come  here  for  a 
spell.  I  wanted  to  see  you  both  and  find  out 
how  you  make  your  strawberry  jam  and  that 
puddin'  you  had  the  other  Sunday  for  din 
ner.  He  ain't  got  through  talkin'  about  that 
puddin'." 

"You're  spoiling  him,  Mrs.  Warner," 
laughed  Judith.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  won't  be  able 
to  live  with  him." 

"Any  time  you  can't,"  rejoined  Aunt 
Belinda,  meaningly,  "you  c'n  just  send  him 
back  to  us.  Me  and  Henry  can  live  with  him 
all  right." 

Sufficiently  rebuked,  Judith  disappeared  in 
search  of  the  desired  recipe.  "As  for  the 
strawberries,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  "all  you 
have  to  do  is  to  measure  the  berries,  cover  them 
with  an  equal  measure  of  sugar,  and  let  them 
stand  over  night  in  a  cool  place.  In  the 
morning,  let  them  cook  very  slowly  until  the 
sirup  is  thick  and  the  berries  are  plump,  then 
seal  as  usual." 

"That  sounds  easy.  I  reckon  I  can  remem 
ber  that.  He  says  he  never  et  such  pre 
serves." 

"He,"  returned  Miss  Cynthia,  with  slightly 
sarcastic  emphasis,  "is  very  kind  to  praise." 

Aunt  Belinda  bristled  inwardly  for  a  moment, 


Woman's  TKHorfe" 


107 


waiting  to  pounce  upon  Miss  Cynthia  should 
reflections  be  made  upon  Carter,  but  nothing 
more  was  said  until  Judith  came  back  with  a 
neat  copy  of  the  receipt. 

"Thank  you.  I  '11  just  put  it  in  my  bag  and 
he  can  have  it  for  his  supper  to-morrow  night. 
Don't  say  nothin'  to  him  about  it — I  want 
him  to  be  surprised." 

"Surprise,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  philosoph 
ically,  "is  the  essential  weapon  of  the  feminine 
equipment.  After  a  man  has  learned  to  love 
a  woman,  all  she  needs  to  do  is  to  keep  him 
surprised.  She  need  not  be  unpleasant,  but 
she  must  be  unexpected." 

This  was  too  deep  for  the  visitor,  but  Judith 
smiled  approvingly.  Not  to  be  left  at  the 
post  and  to  get  safely  back  on  familiar  ground, 
Aunt  Belinda  harked  back  to  the  earlier  hours 
of  the  day. 

"Me  and  Henry  was  havin'  a  discussion 
this  mornin',  about  woman's  work — what  't  is 
and  what  it  ought  to  be." 

"Woman's  work,"  commented  Miss  Cynthia, 
"is  anything  a  man  can  make  her  do." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Cynthia,"  laughed  Judith. 
" Don't  be  so  cynical!"  * 

"  I  'm  not.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  man 
carry  a  burden  when  there  were  woman's 
shoulders  near  enough  to  shift  it  to  ?" 

"Henry  brings  in  the  wood,"  murmured 
Aunt  Belinda,  "and  the  milk,  and  before  we 


Surprise 


io8 


H  Meaner  of  2>ream< 


JDfscuesfng 
Carter 


got  the  sink  put  in  the  kitchen  he  always 
brought  in  the  water." 

"  I  'm  not  speaking  of  material  things," 
Miss  Cynthia  explained.  "Man's  strength  is 
physical  and  woman's  moral.  The  superiority 
of  each  has  come  through  constant  use." 

"Henry  is  moral,"  observed  Aunt  Belinda, 
somewhat  resentfully,  "and  so  is  he." 

"'He'  meaning  Carter?"  askedMiss  Cynthia, 
with  her  dark  eyes  flashing  wickedly.  Aunt 
Belinda  nodded. 

"  I  have  n't  a  doubt  of  it.  Of  course  I  don't 
know  Mr.  Warner  very  well,  but  I  do  know 
Carter,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  he  is  abso 
lutely  moral  and  upright — a  person  to  be  re 
spected.  In  fact,  he  's  almost  too  good  to  be 
true." 

When  the  visitor  had  driven  away,  Judith 
came  to  Miss  Cynthia's  chair  and  knelt  by 
it.  "Dear,"  she  said,  softly,  "aren't  you 
ashamed?" 

"Of  what?" 

"Tormenting  that  dear,  innocent  old  lady! 
Are  n't  you  sorry?" 

Miss  Cynthia  softened.  "Perhaps,  a  little 
— but  I  have  n't  much  amusement,  you  know." 

"  Save  your  sharp  arrows  for  Carter  and  me 
— don't  waste  them  on  her.  She  's  as  devoted 
to  him  as  his  own  mother  might  be,  and 
you  only  hurt  her.  He  's  like  an  only  child 
to  her." 


Woman  s  viuor R 


109 


"Yes,"  returned  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a 
vigorous  nod  of  assent.  "  You  just  wait  until 
you  get  to  living  with  that  only  child  and 
you  '11  see  what  vicarious  maternal  devotion 
has  done  for  him.  I  've  often  wondered  if  the 
mothers  of  only  sons  don't  smile  a  little  bit 
when  girls  take  'em  away  from  'em.  They 
know  what  they  've  let  the  girls  in  for." 

"  Dearest,  you  're  awfully  cross  this  after 
noon.  Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"  I  believe  I  will.  Have  it  made  very  strong, 
please,  and  to-night  I  '11  sit  up  with  you  and 
the  one  god-like  human  being  in  whom  there 
is  no  flaw." 

Sustained  by  "the  cup  that  cheers,"  Miss 
Cynthia  was  soon  in  a  happier  mood,  and 
talked  clothes  with  Judith,  in  the  normal 
feminine  manner,  until  almost  dinner-time. 


Bn  Onlg 


no 


jfranfelg 


VIII 

Xure  of  tbe 


Margery  became  restless 
*  —  J  and  unhappy.  The  novelty  of  her 
surroundings  had  worn  off  and  the  day  hung 
heavily  upon  her  hands.  Her  eyes  drooped 
from  oversleeping,  for,  frankly  bored,  she 
added  to  her  long  night's  slumber  a  daily  nap. 

Chandler  was  troubled,  seeing  that  his 
pretty  butterfly  was  beating  her  wings  in  vain 
upon  the  bars  of  circumstance.  Wisely,  he 
would  have  offered  her  freedom,  but  it  seemed 
impossible,  in  a  way,  and  moreover,  she  had 
no  other  place  to  go. 

Margery's  mother  had  died  in  giving  birth 
to  her  only  child,  so,  never  having  had  a  mother, 
she  had  not  felt  the  lack.  Her  father  had 
striven  manfully  to  fulfil  a  double  duty,  but, 
dying  at  forty-five,  he  had  left  his  little  girl 
just  as  she  would  need  him  most. 

In  his  last  hours,  he  had  remembered  Chan 
dler,  the  friend  of  his  youth.  The  two  had  not 
met  for  many  years,  though  they  had  kept 
up  a  correspondence  of  the  desultory  sort. 
At  long  intervals,  since  the  accident  that  had 


ZTbe  Xure  of  tbe  Cits 


in 


crippled  Chandler,  Gordon  had  gone  to  spend 
a  day  or  two  with  him,  but,  as  it  happened,  he 
had  never  taken  Margery  along. 

The  pathetic  droop  of  Margery's  shoulders, 
the  wistfulness  of  her  eyes,  and  the  sadness  of 
her  mouth  went  straight  to  Chandler's  heart. 
In  vain  had  he  offered  her  the  treasures  of 
his  library,  for  Margery  was  not  particularly 
interested  in  books.  He  played  to  her,  but 
without  accompaniment,  for  Margery's  fond 
parent  had  spared  her  the  arduous  hours  at 
the  piano  which  seem  to  be  considered  a  neces 
sary  part  of  a  girl's  equipment. 

"No,"  she  had  answered,  when  Chandler 
asked  her  if  she  played.  "I  never  cared  to 
learn,  so  Father  did  n't  make  me.  He  said 
that  it  was  very  common  for  a  woman  not  to 
be  able  to  play  the  piano,  but  it  was  a  mark  of 
distinction  for  her  to  know  that  she  could  n't." 

"It  sounds  just  like  him,"  Chandler  mused, 
smiling  to  himself. 

"  Father  said  he  did  n't  know  why  everybody 
had  to  have  a  piano,"  Margery  continued. 
"  He  said  cornets  were  cheaper  and  made  more 
noise,  and,  if  anything,  annoyed  the  neighbours 
more  terribly.  He  said  he  thought  that  except 
in  the  case  of  very  great  artists  the  pleasure  of 
music  was  all  for  the  one  who  did  it,  and  that 
he  and  I  must  be  unselfish  if  we  would  seem 
distinguished  in  a  selfish  world." 

"Apparently,  he  was  n't  musical." 


without 

•Resources 


112 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


(Botbon 


"  He  said  he  was.  We  always  used  to  go  to 
the  opera  and  good  concerts.  He  told  me  once 
that  the  more  musical  people  were,  the  less 
they  would  play  themselves." 

Billy  Gordon's  calm  blue  eyes  looked  up  at 
Chandler  from  Margery's  winsome  face.  Some 
times,  during  wakeful  hours  of  the  night, 
Chandler  tried  to  imagine  Margery's  mother; 
to  reconstruct,  as  it  were,  from  father  and 
daughter,  the  third  member  of  the  group.  He 
supposed  Margery  had  a  picture  somewhere, 
but  he  had  not  asked  to  see  it. 

Gordon  had  seldom  spoken  of  his  dead  wife, 
even  to  Chandler.  Once,  when  he  had  dwelt 
humorously  and  at  some  length  upon  the 
difficulties  that  beset  the  path  of  a  man  with  a 
small  daughter,  with  nothing  to  guide  him 
except  a  few  books  upon  Child-Training, 
written,  in  most  cases,  by  the  childless,  Chan 
dler  had  asked,  idly: 

"Why  don't  you  marry  again  ?" 

"Marry  again!"  Gordon  had  repeated,  in 
credulously.  "Why  man,  you  don't  know 
what  you  're  talking  about.  How  could  I 
want  to  marry  again,  and  how  could  I  doit  if  I 
did?" 

To  this  there  seemed  no  answer,  though 
Chandler  had  trembled  for  a  moment  upon  the 
verge  of  a  confidence.  No  one  knew  of  his 
one  brief  splendid  hour  save  the  woman  who 
had  shared  it  with  him,  and  she 


Xure  of  tbe  Gits 


From  the  fact  that  she  must  still  exist,  some 
where,  Chandler  took  a  melancholy  sort  of 
comfort.  The  beautiful  body  of  her  might 
have  gone  back  to  the  earth  from  which  it  was 
made;  that  which  once  housed  her  might  be 
wind  or  grass  or  sea,  but  the  divine  essence 
which  was  herself,  having  taken  on  the  im 
mortality  of  love,  abided  with  him  still. 

"Some  people,"  Gordon  had  said,  later  in 
the  conversation,  "never  grow,  emotionally. 
If  a  man's  body  stops  growing,  he  's  a  dwarf, 
if  his  mind  ceases  to  expand,  he  's  a  simpleton, 
but  we  never  take  account  of  his  soul.  I  have  a 
friend,  physically  magnificent,  who  combines 
within  himself  the  intellect  of  a  philosopher, 
the  diplomacy  of  a  statesman,  the  executive 
ability  of  the  general  of  an  army,  the  courtesy 
of  a  Chesterfield — and  the  emotions  of  a 
rabbit." 

Chandler  reminded  him  that  Darwin  had 
observed  and  classified  some  sixty  canine 
emotions  expressed  by  the  bark,  and  Billy 
Gordon  had  looked  at  him  just  as  Margery 
was  looking  at  him  that  minute,  nodded,  and 
replied,  "Precisely,  just  so." 

"Margery,"  said  Chandler,  suddenly,  "has 
Algernon  a  soul  ?" 

The  girl  came  to  herself  with  a  start.  Her 
thoughts,  too,  had  been  far  away. 

"What?     I  did  n't  understand." 

"Has  Algernon  a  soul?" 


H  Weaver  ot  Dreams 


Ubeortes 


"Of  course.     Does  n't  he  love  me  ?" 

"Unquestionably,  but  does  love  prove  the 
existence  of  a  soul  ?" 

"Doesn't  it?"  queried  Margery,  chiefly 
because  she  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say. 

Chandler  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  then 
he  asked  again:  "Does  Algernon  reason,  or 
does  a  given  condition,  acting  upon  an  inherited 
structure,  produce — 

Margery  turned  pained  eyes  to  his.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  laughed;  "I  was  merely 
thinking  aloud." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  "Father 
said  I  should  n't  learn  anything  I  did  n't  want 
to  learn,  and  so  I  have  n't." 

"Exactly."  It  would  have  been  like  Billy 
Gordon  to  let  his  daughter  educate  herself  as 
she  chose.  He  had  theories,  indeed,  about  the 
mind  choosing  the  food  it  required  and  dis 
carding  the  rest. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Margery  resumed.  "Father 
used  to  say  that  a  woman  should  be  lovable 
rather  than  intelligent." 

"  But  you  're  both,  dear  child.  Just  because 
you  have  n't  burdened  yourself  with  a  set  of 
useless  facts  is  no  sign  you  could  n't  if  you 
wanted  to." 

Somewhat  mollified,  Margery  smiled  at  him, 
winningly.  It  brought  Chandler  a  new  respect 
for  his  dead  friend's  discernment.  Gifted  with 
a  smile  like  that,  Margery  would  not  need 


TOe  Xure  ot  tbe  Cits 


to  know  where  the  moon  rose,  the  binomial 
theorem,  or  what  made  the  tide  come  in,  only 
to  go  out  again. 

She  tapped  the  veranda  restlessly  with  a 
small  foot,  and,  though  it  was  not  yet  noon, 
yawned — unmistakably  and  openly. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  town?"  he  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

"What  for?"  she  asked,  but  she  brightened, 
nevertheless. 

"Oh,  to  shop.  Haven't  women  always 
shopping  to  do?" 

The  suggestion  appealed  to  Margery  in 
stantly.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her,  since 
she  came,  that  an  hour  on  the  train  would 
take  her  back  into  familiar  haunts.  She  rose 
to  the  lure  of  shop-windows,  of  long  counters 
laden  with  fabrics  from  all  over  the  world. 
Streams  of  ribbons,  rows  upon  rows  of  per 
fumes,  a  wilderness  of  hats — yes,  Margery 
would  go  to  town! 

"Is  there  anything  you  want?  Can  I  get 
anything  for  you  ?" 

"Surely.  I  always  want  books,  but  Judith 
or  Carter  usually  buy  them  for  me.  I  have  a 
list,  though,  and  if  it  is  n't  too  much  trouble 
to  have  them  charged  and  sent  out " 

"No  trouble  at  all,  and  if  there's  anything 
else ' 

"There  isn't." 

His  answer  was  unheeded,  for  Margery  was 


A 
Suggestion 


H  "Cleaver  of  IDreams 


flDarger? 

GOCS  tO 

"Coven 


already  half-way  upstairs,  wondering  where 
she  put  her  time-table  and  what  hat  would 
look  best  with  the  pongee  tailored  gown  she 
had  not  had  an  opportunity  to  wear.  When 
she  came  down,  flushed,  eager,  and  smiling 
under  the  clover-wreath  that  nodded  upon  her 
hat,  she  had  only  time  to  take  the  list  from 
Chandler's  outstretched  hand  and  hurry  to 
the  station  as  she  had  not  hurried  since  she 
left  town. 

The  noise  of  the  train  was  refreshing  and  the 
pungent  smell  of  smoke  came  not  ungratefully 
to  the  small  nose  accustomed  now  to  clover 
blossoms,  cedar  breaths,  and  the  dim,  far  fra 
grance  of  the  hay-fields.  The  smooth  pave 
ments  enticed  her  feet,  and  the  sun,  flashing 
upon  the  many-windowed  cliffs  along  the 
street,  brought  an  answering  light  into  her 
face.  The  elbows  that  jostled  against  hers 
seemed  friendly,  strange  though  they  were. 
She  beamed  at  her  reflection  when  an  occa 
sional  mirror  offered  it,  and  smiled  happily  at 
other  girls  who  only  stared  at  her. 

First,  she  bought  the  books  upon  Chandler's 
list — all  but  one,  which  would  be  sent  later; 
then,  like  a  gypsy  of  the  town  back  at  last  on 
well-known  roads,  threaded  the  mazes  of  shop 
and  street  with  an  unerring  instinct  toward  the 
prettiest — and  most  expensive — things. 

Impatient  of  slow  deliveries,  she  annexed  one 
small  parcel  after  another,  saying,  mechanically, 


Hoc 


oi 


tbe 


117 


at  the  time  of  each  purchase,  "No,  thank  you, 
I  '11  take  it."  Finding  herself  hungry,  she 
went  to  a  tea-room  for  salad  and  ice-cream — 
the  usual  luncheon  of  the  woman  who  pauses 
in  the  midst  of  a  hard  day's  work  in  shops. 
All  the  afternoon  she  drifted  from  one  thing 
to  another,  now  and  then  acquiring  another 
bundle.  At  five  o'clock,  she  betook  herself 
to  the  station,  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  the 
next  train,  having  just  missed  one. 

"Patent  leathers  are  hot,"  she  thought. 
"Wonder  if  anybody  would  see  me  if  I  took 
'em  off!" 

She  slipped  her  small  feet  out  of  her  pumps, 
carefully  spreading  her  skirts  around  them. 
Just  as  she  had  settled  herself  comfortably 
to  rest,  a  friendly  voice  sounded  beside  her 
saying: 

"Well,  upon  my  word!  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

Margery  started  to  her  feet,  amid  a  shower 
of  bundles.  "Why  Mr.  Keith!  How  you 
frightened  me!" 

"  Did  I  ?  I  'm  sorry.  I  thought  I  recog 
nised  your  hat  and  I  came  over  to  see.  I 
suppose  you  've  missed  the  train,  too." 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Margery.  He  was  pick 
ing  up  her  parcels  as  he  spoke.  She  had  one 
foot  safely  in  its  shoe  and  was  desperately 
searching  for  the  other. 

"We  have  almost  half  an  hour  to  wait. 


jfrien&l? 
Voice 


H  Meaver  of  Breams 


Sboe 


Won't  you  come  and  have  some  ice-cream,  or 
something?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  stammered.  "Very 
kind,"  she  added,  absently. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I — I  can't.  I  Ve — "  then,  crimson  with 
embarrassment,  Margery  whispered;  "I've 
lost  my  shoe.  It 's  back  under  the  seat,  I 
guess.  I  must  have  kicked  it  back — I  was  so 
tired,"  she  concluded,  irrelevantly. 

Carter  was  already  upon  his  knees.  Pre 
sently  he  emerged  from  the  stuffy  darkness, 
triumphant.  "Sit  down  and  I  '11  put  it  on 
for  you.  It's  such  a  bit  of  a  shoe  it's  no 
wonder  you  lost  it.  Even  Cinderella  could  n't 
have  got  it  on — I  'm  sure  of  that.  Now  then, 
you  're  all  right." 

Margery's  high  colour  receded  gradually. 
"Thank  you  so  much."  Then  she  added, 
half  shyly,  "  Did  you  miss  the  train  ?" 

"  I  did,"  he  responded,  "  by  just  half  a 
minute."  Judith  would  never  have  asked  such 
a  foolish  question.  Indeed,  she  seldom  dealt 
with  the  obvious,  and,  more  than  once,  he  had 
told  her  that  a  man  would  need  to  be  a  mental 
kangaroo  in  order  to  keep  up  with  her. 

"  I  see  you  did  n't  have  your  parcels  sent," 
he  went  on.  He  would  not  have  said  that  to 
Judith,  nor  even  asked  her  why  she  had  not 
done  so.  If  she  had  appeared  at  the  station 
on  a  blistering  July  day  with  her  arms  full  of 


SLure  of  tbe 


119 


small  packages,  he  would  have  known,  without 
asking,  that  she  had  some  very  good  reason. 

"No,"  said  Margery,  with  a  smile.  She 
had  a  dimple  in  her  chin  and  another  at  the 
corner  of  her  rosy  mouth.  Carter  noted  them 
approvingly,  and  thought  it  rather  odd  that 
he  had  never  noticed  them  before.  Judith 
had  no  dimples  —  she  wasn't  the  dimpled 
sort. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  dimples?"  queried 
Carter,  dreamily.  "  Do  they  sell  them  in  the 
shops?" 

She  laughed  outright,  then.  "  No — of  course 
not.  How  funny  of  you  to  ask !" 

Carter  laughed,  too.  He  found  the  ob 
vious  mysteriously  refreshing.  His  mind  re 
laxed;  he  had  a  pleasant  sense  of  being  in 
command. 

"What 's  this  ?"  he  asked,  indicating  one  of 
the  small  parcels. 

"Tan  ribbon  for  shoe-laces." 

"Oh!    And  this?" 

"A  nail  brush — a  lovely  white  one." 

"And  this?" 

Margery  was  doubtful  for  a  moment,  then 
peeped  inside.  "A  pair  of  silk  stockings — pale 
blue  ones.  A  dollar  and  twenty-nine  cents, 
marked  down  from  a  dollar  and  a  half  for 
to-day  only." 

"I  see.    And  this  ?" 

Margery's  eyes  sparkled.     "  A  veil — an  auto- 


Cactec 

in 
Command 


I2O 


H  Meaner  ot  Breams 


mobile  one.  White,  shading  into  turquoise 
blue.  Two  yards  and  a  half  long.  With 
fringe  on  it.  Want  to  see  it  ?" 

"  Not  here — not  now,"  he  temporised.  "  I  '11 
see  it  some  day.  You  '11  wear  it  the  next  time 
you  come  out  in  the  car  with  me,  won't  you— 
and  Judith  ?" 

"  Yes.  That 's  why  I  got  it.  I  've  had 
lots  of  veils  but  never  an  automobile  one  be 
fore.  Father  said  automobiles  were  inventions 
of  the  devil  and  he  would  never  go  in  one 
himself  nor  let  me." 

"  You  're  not  afraid,  though  ?" 

"Oh,  my  goodness,  no,"  she  responded, 
with  her  blue  eyes  wide  open.  "How  could  I 
be,  with  you  running  it?" 

This,  again,  was  very  different  from  Judith, 
who  had  stubbornly  refused  to  go  with  him 
until  he  had  learned  to  run  the  car. 

"Here's  another  one,"  Margery  continued. 
"White,  shading  into  pink  and  cerise.  Fringe, 
too — cerise  fringe.  Want  to  see  it?" 

"Sometime,  surely.  But  not  now.  Let's  go 
down  to  the  train.  The  car  will  be  open  by 
this  time  and  we  '11  be  sure  of  getting  a  good 
seat.  Let  me  take  your  things — I  can  put 
most  of  them  into  my  pockets." 

"There's  lots  of  things  you  haven't  asked 
about,"  said  Margery  as  she  went  downstairs 
beside  him,  "  but  I  have  n't  given  you  anything 
that  will  break.  What  do  you  suppose  this 


%ure  of  tbe  Ctts  121 


is  ?"  She  swung  a  large  paper  bag  out  in  front 
of  him. 

"That's  easy." 

"No,  it  is  n't  —  I  '11  give  you  three  guesses." 

"Hat,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  openly  disappointed.  "You 
must  have  looked  in,  or  felt  of  it." 

''Some  hats  are  felt,  aren't  they?" 

Margery  laughed  gleefully  —  a  joyous  little 
ripple  of  mirth  that  seemed  to  bring  the  cool 
freshness  of  a  mountain  stream  into  the  hot 
and  dusty  station.  They  had  reached  the 
train  by  this  time. 

"  Go  on  back,"  he  said,  as  they  entered  the 
last  car.  "We  can  open  the  windows  and  the 
back  door  and  get  whatever  breeze  there  hap 
pens  to  be." 

He  turned  a  seat  and  sat  down,  facing  Mar 
gery,  who  was  still  intent  upon  the  subject  of 
hats.  "Look,"  she  said,  opening  the  bag. 
''  Is  n't  it  lovely?" 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "it  is.  What  do  you 
call  this?" 

"It's  only  tulle." 

"  I  know  what  this  is  —  velvet." 

"  You  know  a  lot  of  things,"  she  returned  in 
affected  wonder.  "What  colour  is  it  ?" 

"Pink." 

"No,  it  isn't;  it's  cerise  —  a  white  tulle  hat 
with  a  big  bow  of  cerise  velvet  on  it  and  a 
buckle  of  brilliants.  Nothing  could  be  more 


122 


H  Weaver  ot  Breams 


Hn  Butoa 
mcbile 

tat 


simple — or  more  expensive,"  she  concluded, 
with  a  frown.  "  But  is  n't  it  beautiful?" 

She  took  off  the  clover-trimmed  hat"  as  the 
train  pulled  out  of  the  station,  and  poised  the 
new  one  airily  upon  her  yellow  curls.  The 
sun  streamed  through  the  open  window  and 
alighted  upon  the  buckle,  dazzling  the  eyes  of 
the  beholder. 

"It  is,"  he  answered,  and  added,  truth 
fully,  "and  so  are  you." 

Margery  blushed  divinely.  "Are  I? — I 
mean,  am  I  ?  I  always  used  to  say  'are  I  ?'  to 
Father.  He  liked  it." 

"So  do  I.  Say  it  to  me  sometimes,  won't 
you?" 

"The  veil  is  to  go  with  it,"  she  responded, 
irrelevantly. 

"The  blue  one?" 

"Gracious,  no — the  pink  one,  shading  into 
cerise.  The  ends  of  it  match  the  bow  on  the 
hat.  It 's  an  automobile  hat,"  she  concluded. 

"Will  it  look  well  with  a  red  automo 
bile?" 

Margery's  face  fell.  "No,"  she  said,  sadly, 
"it  won't.  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"Never  mind,"  he  answered  quickly, 
strangely  moved  by  the  spectacle  of  Beauty  in 
Distress.  "  I  can  have  the  car  painted  any 
other  colour  you  like." 

"That  is  n't  necessary."  She  was  dignified, 
now,  and  a  little  cool. 


Ube  Xure  ot  tbe  Cits 


123 


"  I  know  it.  Nobody  would  ever  think  of 
looking  at  the  car  while  you  were  in  it." 

This  airy  persiflage  occupied  the  time  so 
pleasantly  that  Carter  was  surprised  when 
they  reached  their  destination.  A  breath 
from  the  clover-fields  welcomed  them  when  the 
smoke  of  the  departing  engine  finally  cleared 
away. 

"  You  can't  walk  home  with  all  those  parcels 
and  those  tired  little  feet,"  Carter  was  saying. 
"  If  you  don't  mind  waiting  here  about  twenty 
minutes,  I  '11  go  and  get  the  car  and  take  you 
home,  bag  and  baggage." 

"That  would  be  lovely.     I  am  tired." 

When  he  came  back,  she  was  wearing  the 
new  hat  and  had  the  pink  veil  tied  over  it. 
Carter  mentally  approved  of  it  very  much,  but 
said  nothing. 

Margery  sat  beside  him,  silent  and  shy,  as 
they  went  home.  She  answered  him  in  mono 
syllables  when  he  spoke. 

Secretly,  to  her,  he  appeared  as  the  incarnate 
hero  of  all  the  novels  she  had  ever  read.  Judith, 
in  her  eyes,  was  veiled  ^with  wonder — being 
engaged  to  him. 

"  I  'm  a  thousand  times  obliged,"  she  said  as 
she  stopped  at  the  gate. 

"  You  're  a  thousand  times  welcome.  Here 
—don't  forget  your  parcels.  Have  you  got 
everything?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.    Thank  you  again,  and 


Ube  IRtD 
tiome 


I24 


H  'CUeafer  of  IDreams 


TOUarg 


good-bye.  Remember  me  to  Judith,  won't 
you?" 

"  Surely.     Good-bye." 

An  empty  envelope  and  a  yellow  sales-slip 
blew  toward  the  cross-roads,  but  neither  of 
them  noticed  it.  The  car  purred  away  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  and  Margery,  weary,  heavy- 
laden,  but  very  happy,  went  into  the  house, 
where  the  lonely  man  had  been  waiting  for  her 
ever  since  she  went  away. 


125 


IX 

Blue  Stockings 

OF  course  they  're  for  me,"  Miss  Cynthia      »  $  in* 
was    saying.      "Don't    they    fit    me 
perfectly?" 

"Is  everything  yours  that  fits  you?" 
queried  Judith,  mildly  amused. 

"It  ought  to  be,  if  I  want  it.  Whose  are 
they,  if  they're  not  mine?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Anyhow,  they  're  damp 
and  you  're  to  take  them  off  this  minute."-  s 

Going  out  upon  the  upper  veranda,  early  in 
the  morning,  Miss  Cynthia  had  found  a  pair 
of  pale  blue  silk  stockings,  wet  with  the  heavy 
dew  of  the  preceding  night.  With  childish 
delight,  she  sat  down  to  put  them  on,  and  was 
even  now  contemplating  with  pleasure  one 
small  foot  in  a  damp,  but  undeniably  becoming, 
stocking. 

"They  say  women  can't  reason,"  Miss 
Cynthia  continued,  as  she  meekly  obeyed 
Judith,  "but  I  was  gifted  at  my  birth  with 
logic.  Here  are  stockings,  where  stockings 
are  not  wont  to  be.  The  evidence  of  our 
senses  does  not  permit  us  to  deny  the  existence 


126 


H  Meaner  of  H)reams 


perplexes  of  stockings.  The  question  is,  how  did  they 
come  here?  Not  having  wings,  they  were 
put  here  by  some  outward  agency,  natural  or 
supernatural.  We  dismiss  the  latter  at  once. 
Nobody  has  been  on  this  veranda  since  yester 
day  afternoon  when  there  were  no  stockings, 
but  you  and  I  and  Carter.  You  and  I  drop 
out  by  elimination.  Consequently,  Carter 
brought  them,  either  for  you  or  for  me,  and 
they  're  not  yours,  because  they  're  too  small. 
Q.E.D.,"  she  concluded,  with  a  laugh. 

"  But,"  Judith  objected,  "why  should  Carter 
bring  you  stockings?" 

"Why  should  Carter  not?"  challenged  Miss 
Cynthia.  "  Is  it  not  perfectly  proper?  Is  not 
Carter  a  perfectly  proper  young  man?  If  it 
had  not  been  proper,  would  not  Carter  have  at 
once  made  it  so  by  doing  it?" 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that.  Why  should  he 
bring  you  stockings  and  forget  to  give  them  to 
you?  If  he'd  done  it,  he'd  have  had  them 
wrapped  in  tissue  paper.  Besides,  he  never 
forgets  things." 

Judith  was  somewhat  perplexed,  for,  though 
Miss  Cynthia's  explanation  seemed  to  be  the 
only  one  possible,  nothing  could  have  been 
more  unlike  Carter  than  to  buy  stockings  for 
anybody.  And  as  for  leaving  them  unwrapped 
upon  the  veranda — she  shook  her  head. 

"It  was  either  Carter  or  fairies,"  Miss 
Cynthia  went  on,  hanging  the  stockings  upon 


JSlue  Stocftings 


127 


the  railing  of  the  balcony  to  dry  in  the  morn 
ing  sun.  "  1 1  's  a  matter  of  extremes,  for  Carter 
is  n't  what  you  might  call  fairy-like.  Shall  we 
have  breakfast  outdoors?" 

"  If  you  like,"  Judith  answered,  as  the  maid 
appeared  with  the  tray. 

"To-night,"  Miss  Cynthia  said,  while  she 
was  pouring  the  coffee,  "  I  shall  thank  him  for 
them  in  my  prettiest  manner." 

"  You  can't  to-night,  for  he  is  n't  coming. 
Don't  you  remember?  He  told  us  last  night 
that  he  had  to  go  out  of  town  this  morning  and 
would  n't  be  back  until  to-morrow,  or  at  the 
best,  the  last  train  to-night.  We  sha'  n't  see 
him  again  until  Friday  night." 

"How  terrible,"  Miss  Cynthia  murmured. 
"  I  wonder  how  we  shall  bear  it!"  She  smiled 
mockingly  at  Judith,  and  was  rewarded  by  a 
bit  of  scarlet  that  signalled  from  either  cheek. 

"Don't  tease,"  Judith  pleaded.  "Have  a 
muffin?" 

"Two  muffins,  but  consecutively,  rather 
than  simultaneously.  Are  n't  you  sleepy,  after 
having  been  up  last  night  until  almost  one 
o'clock?" 

"It  was  n't  one  —  it  was  only  half -past 
twelve.  You  mistook  the  striking  of  the 
clock." 

"  It  struck  one  just  before  you  began  on  the 
last  instalment  of  farewells.  Then  it  struck 
one  about  a  moment  after  you  stepped  on  the 


tow  Sba.ll 

TOc  33car 

It? 


128 


a  Meaner  of  H>ream< 


Cbaperons  squeaky  board  in  front  of  your  door.  And, 
before  your  light  was  out,  it  had  struck  one 
again,  so  don't  blame  the  clock. 

"  I  'm  not  sure,"  the  old  lady  continued, 
"that  an  unmarried  woman  of  any  age  is  a 
proper  chaperone.  On  the  face  of  it,  it 's 
ridiculous,  but  most  of  the  conventionalities  are 
based  upon  the  sheerest  nonsense.  If  your 
little  friend  Miss  Margery  were  married,  she 
could  chaperone  both  of  us  when  Carter  called. 
And  we  're  both  older,  and  even  you  know 
more  than  she  '11  have  packed  away  inside  her 
pretty  head  thirty  years  from  now.  Modesty 
forbids  my  making,  any  comparisons  with 
myself/' 

"Aunt  Cynthia,"  said  Judith,  suddenly, 
"why  did  you  never  marry  ?" 

The  mocking  light  died  out  of  the  old  lady's 
eyes  and  her  face  paled,  though  almost  im 
perceptibly.  A  pathetic  droop  came  upon 
her  shoulders  that,  but  a  moment  before, 
had  been  bravely  straight.  The  morning  sun 
brought  into  cruel  relief  grim,  unsuspected  lines 
about  her  mouth.  In  an  instant  she  had 
crossed  an  intangible  line  of  division.  She 
was  old  and  broken  now — she  who  had  always 
been  young. 

With  downcast  eyes  she  stirred  her  coffee 
furiously,  then  cleared  her  throat.  "Every 
body  marries,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  new  to 
Judith,  "when  the  right  person  comes  along, 


3Blue 


129 


unless  there  is  some  barrier  which  makes  it 
impossible." 

"And  you—  murmured  Judith,  with 
dreamy  eyes  far  out  upon  the  garden.  "  Did 
the  right  one  come?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  Miss  Cynthia,  in  a  whisper. 

"Then  there  was  a  barrier  between  you?" 

"No." 

Judith  turned  astonished  eyes  to  Miss 
Cynthia.  "Then— why?" 

"My  dear,"  the  old  lady  answered,  irrele 
vantly,  "a  fool  can  ask  more  questions  in  a 
minute  than  a  wise  man  can  answer  in  a  week. 
Why  does  old  cheese  lie  still  in  Winter  and 
promenade  all  around  the  kitchen  in  Summer? 
Why  does  the  kind  grocer  always  put  the  large 
fruit  on  the  top  of  the  basket  instead  of 
leaving  it  at  the  bottom  to  surprise  the  happy 
purchaser?  Why  does  the  young  moon  rise 
in  one  place  and  the  old  moon  in  another? 
And  why,  when  relatives  are  perfectly  sincere 
and  friends  more  or  less  deceitful,  do  most 
of  us  prefer  friends?" 

"  Because  none  of  us  likes  to  be  told  the 
truth.  Is  that  the  answer?" 

"There  are  two  sides  to  the  truth,"  Miss 
Cynthia  said,  quite  herself  again,  "just  as 
there  is  to  everything  else.  When  there  is  n't 
a  back  and  front,  there  's  an  inside  and  an 
outside.  You  may  say  that  a  woman  is  cross, 
disorderly,  idle,  and  given  to  unkind  gossip; 


Uwo  Stoee 
to  tbe 
TEmtb 


130 


a  Weaver  of  Breams 


also  that  she  is  unselfish,  and  would  do  any- 
thing  in  the  world  for  those  she  loves.  Both 
statements  may  be  absolutely  true.  A  relative 
would  naturally  choose  one  to  talk  about  and  a 
friend  the  other.  Are  you  going  to  take  a  nap 
this  afternoon?" 

"No — it's  Thursday.  I  go  to  Mr.  Chan 
dler's,  you  know.  What  shall  I  tell  him  for  you  ? 
Do  you  want  to  send  him  anything?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  it 's  proper  for  an  un 
married  woman  to  be  sending  things  to  an  un 
married  man  whom  she  's  never  met.  I  hope 
it  is  n't,  for  I  have  so  little  opportunity  to 
yield  to  the  allurements  of  sin.  You  may 
take  him  a  pot  of  that  preserved  ginger." 

"And  a  note?" 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head  decidedly. 
"No — no  note.  Ask  him  why  cheese  walks 
in  the  Summer  and  if  it  is  immoral  to  cheat  at 
solitaire." 

When  Judith  delivered  her  message  that 
afternoon,  Chandler  laughed  heartily  and  even 
Margery  dimpled  into  a  smile.  Miss  Cynthia 
never  forgot.  When  Judith  came  she  always 
had  some  sort  of  message,  though  it  might 
be  only  a  joke  clipped  from  a  stray  news 
paper. 

"  I  'm  a  thousand  times  obliged  for  the 
ginger,"  he  said,  "and  cheese  walks  in 
Summer  because  the  heat  develops  the  activity 
of  its  hibernating  population,  and  it  is  not 


3Blue  Stockings 


131 


immoral  to  cheat  at  solitaire.  How  is  the 
dear  lady?" 

"She 's  well,  thank  you.  We  were  much 
exercised  this  morning  over  stockings  that 
came  from  nowhere.  Apparently,  they  dropped 
out  of  the  heavens  in  the  night  to  our 
veranda.  They  're  just  the  colour  of  the  sky 
to-day — a  lovely  pale  blue — silk,  and  very 
small." 

"Why,"  said  Margery,  doubtfully.  "They 
must  be  mine — the  ones  I  lost  yesterday. 
I  've  hunted  for  them  high  and  low — all  through 
the  house  and  down  the  road  and  everywhere. 
I  never  thought  of  asking  him." 

"  Him  ?  "  repeated  Judith,  turning  to  Margery 
in  astonishment. 

"Why,  yes — Mr.  Keith,  you  know.  We 
came  out  together  yesterday.  I  met  him  at 
the  station  and  then  when  we  got  here,  he 
went  and  got  the  car  to  bring  me  home  in  it, 
because  I  was  tired  and  had  so  many  things 
to  carry.  He  said  he  'd  remember  me  to  you — 
didn't  he?" 

"Of  course,"  lied  Judith.     "  I  'd  forgotten." 

Margery's  childlike  eyes  perceived  no 
change  in  that  beautiful,  serene  face.  Chan 
dler,  happening  to  observe  her  more  closely, 
saw  the  merest  suggestion  of  perplexity  or 
annoyance — nothing  more.  It  was  like  the 
momentary  reflection  in  a  brook  of  the  cloud 
that  passes  far  above  it,  scurrying  upon  some 


lost  ant> 
jfound 


132 


pain 

winds. 


H  Weaver  ot  S>reams 


celestial  errand    at   the  bidding  of  the  four 


"And  the  stockings?"  Judith  was  saying  in 
her  cool,  deep  voice.  "Did  he  forget  to  give 
them  to  you?  " 

"He  must  have.  He  had  all  my  little 
parcels  in  his  pockets  and  I  did  n't  miss  it  at 
first, — I  had  so  many — the  nail  brush  and  the 
tan  ribbon,  and  the  two  veils  and  my  hat, 
and " 

"I  'm  sorry,"  Judith  said,  kindly,  interrupt 
ing  the  recapitulation.  "I  '11  see  that  you  get 
them." 

"It  is  nothing,"  Judith  was  saying  to  her 
self,  sternly,  "absolutely  nothing.  He  forgot 
to  speak  of  it — that's  all."  Then  her  reason 
added, in  gallant  defence  of  him:  "Why  should 
he  speak  of  it  ?  Am  I  a  child  or  a  fool  that  I 
must  be  told  everything  ?  Need  he  account 
to  me  for  every  minute  we  're  not  together  ?  " 

The  memory  of  last  night's  last  hour  stirred 
in  her  heart,  like  a  living  thing.  All  the  ten 
derness,  the  dear  foolishness,  the  strong  clasp 
of  his  arms  around  her,  the  touch  of  his  lips 
upon  her  hair,  the  music  of  his  deep  voice, 
saying  over  and  over  again,  "I  love  you — I 
love  you — I  love  you" — she  answered  to  it 
as  though  it  were  now,  instead  of  yesterday. 
And  still,  into  her  joy  had  come  the  element 
of  pain  that  forever  is  inextricably  mingled 
with  woman's  love.  Primitive  Woman,  part 


36lue  Stocfefngs  133 

and  parcel  of  Judith's  being,  yet,  until  now,     ©utof 
asleep,   moved  uneasily,   then  awoke  with  a 
start,    and    rubbed    her   eyes — vengefully   on 
guard  to  watch  over  her  own. 

"Are  you  rested?"  Chandler  asked.  "Shall 
we  play  now?" 

"Surely."  With  an  effort  Judith  separated 
herself  from  her  secret  confusion.  All  this 
could  be  put  aside  and  shut  away  to  be  con 
sidered  later.  Chandler's  man  wheeled  his 
chair  into  the  corner  by  the  piano  where  he 
usually  sat,  with  the  sunlight  on  his  music- 
rack  but  out  of  his  eyes.  Judith,  rather  pale 
but  outwardly  self-possessed,  struck  a  few 
preliminary  chords. 

"The  piano  needs  tuning,"  she  said. 

"  I  know  it.  I  've  been  meaning  to  have  it 
done." 

"  I  think  we  need  tuning  ourselves,  some 
times,"  Judith  went  on,  "but  there's  never 
anybody  to  do  it." 

"Except  ourselves." 

Judith  turned  to  look  at  him.  "Can  we 
always  do  it?" 

"Why  not?" 

"You're  so  like  Aunt  Cynthia,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  She  always  answers  questions  with 
other  questions — unless  she  deals  in  epigrams, 
which  are  infinitely  worse.  Sometimes  it 
seems  as  if  she  must  sit  up  half  the  night, 
absorbing  the  output  from  an  epigram  factory." 


134 


H  TKfleaver  ot  H)reams 


H  JlSrofcen 
Cbor& 


"  I  wish  I  knew  her,"  Chandler  said,  tuning 
his  violin. 

"I  wish  you  did.  Do  you  want  to  try 
this?" 

"Yes." 

They  played  a  gay  little  dance,  but  beneath 
it,  in  Judith's  thought,  a,  single  phrase  suited 
itself; to  the  rhythm.  "He  didn't  tell  me— 
he  did  n't  tell  me — he  did  n't  tell  me — he 
didn't  tell  me."  It  seemed  as  though  the 
words  sang  themselves  loudly  enough  for  all 
the  world  to  hear.  Long  before  they  reached 
the  end,  it  had  become  unbearable  and  Judith 
stopped,  with  a  broken  chord. 

"  I  'm  not  in  the  mood  for  this  to-day. 
Let 's  try  something  else." 

"Very  well." 

She  sorted  over  their  music,  her  hands 
trembling  a  little,  then  she  chanced  upon  a 
book  containing  parts  of  Lohengrin,  arranged 
for  violin  and  piano.  They  began  with  the 
Wedding  March,  then  played  other  selections 
less  familiar. 

"Let's  try  this,"  Judith  suggested.  "It's 
lovely — it 's  the  part  where  she  asks  him  his 
name." 

Chandler's  violin  crashed  to  the  floor. 
"No,"  he  cried — "not  that!" 

She  turned  in  amazement,  stooping  mechani 
cally  to  pick  up  the  violin.  Margery,  humming 
to  herself,  idly  passed  the  window,  pausing  at 


Blue  Stockings  135 


the  apple  tree  to  pick  up  a  fallen  twig  and  toss 
it  to  the  puppy,  gambolling  at  her  heels. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Judith  softly. 

"Nothing,"  sighed  Chandler,  taking  the 
violin,  which,  fortunately,  was  not  broken. 
"  It  was  only  a  ghost — that 's  all." 

"Ghosts  seem  to  be  haunting  us  both  this 
afternoon.  I  'm  in  a  wretched  mood." 

"So  am  I,"  he  answered,  putting  his  violin 
back  into  its  case.  "  Let 's  not  play  any  more 
to-day." 

Judith  went  home  an  hour  earlier  than  usual. 
Miss  Cynthia  was  on  the  upper  balcony, 
amusing  herself  with  a  pack  of  cards.  "Is  it 
immoral  to  cheat  at  solitaire?"  she  asked, 
looking  up  when  Judith  spoke  to  her. 

"No — he  says  not." 

"  I  'm  so  sorry,"  sighed  Miss  Cynthia.  "  I 
hoped  it  was  and  I  just  did  it." 

"  I  found  out  about  the  stockings,"  Judith 
said,  keeping  her  voice  even  with  an  effort. 
"They're  Margery's." 

"How  did  Margery's  stockings  come  on  my 
porch?"  the  old  lady  queried,  putting  away 
the  cards. 

"Carter  met  her  at  the  station,  yesterday, 
accidentally,  and  put  her  small  parcels  into  his 
pockets.  She  was  so  tired,  from  a  day's  shop 
ping,  that  he  went  after  his  car  and  took  her 
home.  This  happened  to  be  left  in  his  pocket, 
and,  not  knowing  it,  he  can't  have  missed  it. 


136 


TOUt&ln 


When  he  took  off  his  coat  and  laid  it  on  the 
arm  of  that  big  chair,  they  must  have  slipped 

out." 

"  I  see.     I  told  you  it  was  Carter." 

"Wasn't  it  nice  of  him?"  demanded  Judith. 

"What  —  to  leave  her  stockings  on  my  porch  ? 
I  should  say  not.  He  disappointed  both  of 
us." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that.  Was  n't  it  nice  of 
him  to  go  and  get  his  car  when  she  was  so  tired 
and  take  her  home?" 

Miss  Cynthia  observed  Judith  narrowly 
before  she  spoke.  "Very  nice.  But  then, 
Carter  is  always  doing  nice  things." 

"Yes,"  Judith  echoed,  loyally:  "Carter  is 
always  doing  nice  things." 

Pleading  weariness,  Judith  went  to  bed  very 
early  but  she  could  not  sleep.  In  vain  did 
she  reason  with  the  Primitive  Woman  within 
her;  scornfully  did  she  accuse  herself  of  dis 
loyalty.  Womanlike,  at  the  first,  she  had 
prayed  that  her  love  of  him  might  be  tested. 
Womanlike,  now,  she  shrank  from  even  the 
thought  of  a  test. 

Toward  dawn,  she  went  into  Miss  Cynthia's 
room.  "What  is  it?"  murmured  the  old  lady, 
drowsily.  "  Is  anybody  ill?" 

"No.     I  just  want  to  talk." 

"Talk,  then.     I  won't  hinder  you." 

"Aunt  Cynthia,"  cried  Judith,  in  a  rush  of 
doubt  and  pain,  "he  did  n't  tell  me!" 


JSlue  Stocfefngs  137 


"Who  did  n't  tell  you  what?" 

"Carter.  He  didn't  tell  me  that  he  met 
Margery  in  town  and  took  her  home  in  his 
car." 

Miss  Cynthia  sat  up  in  bed,  rubbed  her  eyes, 
then  lighted  the  candle  on  the  little  table  at  her 
bedside.  Judith's  scarlet  kimono  only  em 
phasised  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  veiled  in 
the  night  of  her  hair,  and  the  pitiful  question 
ing  in  her  eyes. 

"Is  it  a  crime?"  asked  the  old  lady.  "Is 
he  in  danger  of  being  hung  for  it?" 

Judith  laughed  hysterically.  "No,  but  why 
did  n't  he  tell  me?" 

"Once,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  dreamily, 
"  there  was  a  man  who  was  capable  of  lifelong 
devotion  to  one  woman,  but  he  died  before 
he  was  out  of  knickerbockers." 

"Aunt  Cynthia!  You  shan't  accuse  him 
of— of- 

" Of  what?" 

"Of  anything!" 

The  old  lady  leaned  back  among  her  pillows. 
Gracefully,  with  a  small,  ringless  hand,  she 
concealed  a  yawn.  The  whiteness  of  her 
gown  made  her  face  slightly  pink  by  contrast, 
but  the  mass  of  hair  that  was  spread  out  upon 
her  pillow  was  as  white  as  the  pillow  itself. 
The  candlelight  lay  lovingly  upon  her  hair, 
bringing  forth  fitful  gleams  of  silver. 

"All  right,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  politely.     "  I 


138 


a  TKHeaver  of  5>reams 


Hefting  a 

/Kan 
Questions 


won't  accuse  him  of  anything.  Sometimes  I  for 
get,  however,  that  the  king  can  do  no  wrong." 

"He  probably  forgot  to  speak  of  it,"  re 
marked  Judith,  half  to  herself.  "  It  was  such 
a  little,  little  thing!" 

"Probably,"  assented  Miss  Cynthia,  with 
the  merest  suggestion  of  sarcasm. 

"If  he  doesn't,  would  you  ask?" 

"If  he  doesn't  what?" 

"  If  he  does  n't  speak  of  it,  would  you  ask 
him  about  it?" 

"Judith,  dear!  Twenty-six,  and  seriously 
considering  asking  a  man  questions?" 

"Why  not?"  she  demanded. 

Miss  Cynthia  fixed  her  wonderful  eyes  upon 
the  unhappy  figure  in  scarlet,  sitting  upon 
the  foot  of  her  bed,  but  only  for  an  instant. 
Leaning  over,  she  blew  out  the  light. 

"Some  women,"  she  observed,  "want  to  ask 
a  man  questions.  Others  prefer  not  to  be 
lied  to." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  "Good 
night,"  said  Judith. 

"Good-night,"  returned  Miss  Cynthia,  and 
added  softly:  "dear." 

Musing  upon  the  mysterious  way  of  a  man 
with  a  woman,  Miss  Cynthia  fell  asleep  again 
almost  immediately.  The  younger  woman, 
more  unhappy  than  before,  deeply  regretted 
the  attempt  to  take  Miss  Cynthia  into  her 
confidence. 


JSlue  Stocfcings 


139 


At  sunrise,  there  was  a  rush  of  wings  past 
her  window,  then  a  coo  and  a  flutter  as  the 
messenger  alighted  upon  the  sill. 

"Oh,"  breathed  Judith,  with  her  troubled 
heart  mercifully  eased. 

She  took  the  note  out  of  the  aluminum  case. 
It  was  only  three  words:  "I  love  you,"  signed 
with  a  star  for  a  kiss.  She  sprinkled  a  few 
grains  of  corn  upon  the  window  sill  for  the 
pigeon,  and  while  he  pecked  at  it,  wrote  her 
answer:  "And  I  love  you." 

She  was  radiant,  as  from  some  inner  light, 
when  she  closed  the  screen  and  set  the  pigeon 
free.  The  phantoms  of  the  night  and  of  the 
day  before  were  swept  away  by  an  over 
whelming  surge  of  loyalty  and  love.  What 
more  could  there  ever  be  to  say?  What  more 
could  there  ever  be  to  know,  aside  from  those 
three  words? 

Primitive  Woman,  with  a  deep  sigh,  settled 
herself  to  sleep  once  more  until  she  should  be 
called,  and,  presently,  Judith  slept  also. 


Ubtee 
flfcagic 


140 


B£at> 
flight 


X 

a  Wloman'0  Ibair 

IT  was  past  noon  when  Judith  came  down, 
rather  dreading  the  awkward  moment  of 
meeting.  By  day  we  may  deal  with  the  airy 
superstructure  of  our  emotions,  but,  at  three 
in  the  morning,  we  get  down  to  the  founda 
tion.  At  night  the  soul  claims  the  right  to 
stand  face  to  face  with  itself,  as  before  some 
mirror  placed  in  a  pitiless  light  and,  with 
unsparing  eyes,  seek  the  truth. 

Miss  Cynthia,  with  crutch  and  cane,  had 
just  returned  from  a  tour  of  the  garden.  "  Did 
you  have  a  bad  night?"  she  queried,  lightly, 
"or  were  you  merely  making  up  lost  sleep?" 

"  I  had  rather  a  bad  night,"  Judith  returned 
truthfully.  "  I  'm  very  sorry  I  woke  you." 

"Woke  me!"  repeated  Miss  Cynthia. 
"Why,  my  dear — you  did  n't  wake  me!" 

"Yes  I  did — don't  you  remember?  When 
I  came  into  your  room  to  talk?" 

"You  weren't  in  my  room,  Judith — it  was 
only  a  dream." 

"Perhaps,"    the    young    woman    returned, 


H  moman's  Daft 


141 


gratefully.  "Sometimes  we  sleep  more  than 
we  think  we  do." 

"Nearly  always,  I  imagine.  You  must  be 
hungry.  Will  you  have  breakfast,  or  lunch 
eon  ?  " 

"  Breakfast,  please — but  I  'm  ashamed  to 
ask  for  it  at  this  hour." 

"  You  need  n't  be.  Home  is  a  place  where 
we  all  do  as  we  please — usually  regardless  of 
the  others." 

Completely  deceived  by  Miss  Cynthia's 
ready  tact,  Judith  was  at  ease  again.  During 
the  afternoon,  while  the  old  lady  read  aloud 
in  her  high,  sweet  voice,  Judith  put  the  last 
stitches  into  the  embroidered  panel  that  was 
to  be  the  front  of  her  wedding  gown. 

"It's  lovely,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  leaning 
forward  to  examine  it.  "  I  've  often  wondered, 
though,  why  you  chose  linen  to  be  married 
in." 

"  Because,"  the  young  woman  returned,  with 
a  scarlet  signal  upon  either  cheek,  "  I  was 
wearing  a  white  linen  gown  the  day  he — the 
day  Carter — "  She  paused,  in  lovely  confu 
sion. 

"  Don't  go  on,"  teased  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a 
wicked  flash  in  her  eyes.  "All  proposals  are 
alike." 

"Someone  once  said,"  Judith  continued, 
hastily,  "  that  men  were  different  but  husbands 
were  all  alike." 


Ufnen 


142 


H  Weaver  ot  Breams 


B  Oban'a 
proposal 


'  'T  is  n't  so,  dearest.  If  it  were,  no  woman 
would  marry  twice." 

"Aunt  Cynthia!" 

"Yes,  dear — I  'm  listening." 

"  Don't  be  so  cynical." 

"  I  'm  not.  Never  having  had  a  husband, 
may  I  not  observe  the  creature  from  a  respect 
ful  distance?  A  man  says:  'I  love  you — will 
you  marry  me?'  What  he  really  means  is: 
'Will  you  come  to  look  after  my  house,  do  my 
mending,  bear  my  children,  bring  them  up, 
cook  for  me  when  necessary,  and  see  that  the 
plumbing  is  in  perfect  order?  I  shall  give  you 
board  and  clothes,  though  you  may  have  to 
speak  several  times  about  the  clothes,  and  an 
occasional  pat  on  the  cheek.'" 

"  Love  is  service,"  murmured  Judith.  "It's 
giving,  not  receiving." 

"Woman's  love  is,  yes.  Man's  love  is — 
well,  something  entirely  different.  Carter 
may  be  running  around  backwards  on  your 
account  now,  but  after  you're  married,  he'll 
have  forgotten  all  the  fancy  steps  in  a  very 
short  time.  He  '11  go  straight  ahead,  and  may 
not  even  look  behind  to  see  whether  you  're 
coming  or  not.  The  whole  business  reminds 
me  of  the  old  farmer  who  started  in  to  see  all 
the  side-shows  at  the  Exposition.  He  said  he 
went  into  'Exit'  first  and.it  was  such  a  miser 
able  fake  that  he  did  n't  care  to  go  any  farther." 

Judith  sighed  and  turned  her  face   away. 


H  Woman's  f>air 


143 


The  clear  olive  skin  was  pale  now  and  the 
scarlet  mouth  had  settled  into  lines  of  un 
wonted  sadness.  Repentantly,  Miss  Cynthia 
leaned  forward  to  pat  Judith's  hand  and  pick 
up  the  embroidery  that  had  slipped  to  the 
floor  unheeded. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  dear,"  she  said,  humbly. 
"Naturally  I  disdain  the  side-shows.  I  got 
into  'Exit,'  too." 

Judith  answered  with  a  kiss.  "  I  was  n't 
'minding' — I  was  just  thinking." 

"Thinking  is  unprofitable — I  never  do  it 
personally.  Go  and  call  up  Carter  and  ask 
him  to  come  here  to  dinner.  I  'd  like  to  see  the 
boy  myself.  If  you  think  it 's  unmaidenly  to 
tell  him  you  're  lonely  without  him,  you  may 
say  that  I  am  literally  suffering  for  even  a 
glimpse  of  him;  that  my  world  is  as  night 
without  the  sun." 

Judith  came  back  from  the  telephone, 
laughing.  "I  infer  he's  coming?"  asked 
Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  slight  elevation  of  her 
eyebrows. 

"Yes.  He  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  while 
he  would  love  to  be  your  son,  he  can  only  be 
your  nephew-in-law." 

"Clever  child,  Carter.  What  shall  we  give 
him  for  dinner?" 

"  I  '11  leave  that  to  you." 

So  the  old  lady  planned  the  indigestible 
feast  which  she  knew  would  please  her  guest. 


Calling 
tip  Garter 


144 


a  Weaver  ot  HJreams 


Cbc  tjeart 

of  a 
TOloman 


Carter  came  at  six,  with  white  roses  for  Judith 
and  pink  ones  for  Miss  Cynthia,  who  had 
chosen  to  linger  upon  the  upper  balcony  until 
the  rapturous  moments  of  meeting  had  sub 
sided.  At  times,  when  the  lovers  sat  together 
in  the  twilight,  happily  oblivious  of  her,  a  long- 
closed  door  in  Miss  Cynthia's  heart  swung 
open  upon  its  rusty  hinges,  and  a  troop  of 
ghosts  came  forth,  to  trouble  and  to  beckon. 
She,  too,  had  known  her  perfect  hour. 

Who  shall  write  of  the  heart  of  a  woman — 
the  long  winding  passages,  thick  with  swaying 
cobwebs,  the  cold  hearths  deep  with  dust? 
Who  shall  tell  of  its  desolate  altars,  deserted 
by  him  for  whom  the  candles  were  lighted, 
while  shadows  creep  steadily  toward  the 
flickering  lights  and  the  fragrance  of  the  in 
cense  dies  away  in  the  dark?  Hidden  in  many 
a  secret  chamber,  behind  doors  that  are  closed 
and  barred,  the  lost  faiths  mourn,  the  broken 
illusions  lie  helpless,  and  the  dead  dreams  wait 
for  resurrection. 

Ready  to  trust,  eager  to  believe,  and  desper 
ately  hungry  for  love,  the  woman  waits  for  ever 
behind  her  closed  door.  She  dare  not  open  it 
and  beckon,  lest  Love  pass  on  unheeding;  she 
must  wait  until  his  voice  sounds  outside, 
pleading  for  entrance,  and  even  then,  she  fears 
to  answer  his  first  summons. 

Tortured  by  woman's  burning  need  to  give, 
she  must  yet  withhold — if  she  would  have 


H  Woman's  1bair  145 

Love    stay.    After    long    waiting,    she    must 

~  til  •  r-r  ,         HJevlous 

affect  to  be  taken  by  surprise.  She  must  wake 
long-slumbering  echoes  with  light  laughter, 
reaching  even  to  the  mournful  solitude  where 
the  dead  dreams  lie.  And  if,  eagerly  search 
ing  his  eyes,  she  reads  therein  even  a  word  of 
the  message  her  soul  craves,  she  will  beckon 
him  mysteriously  into  the  inmost  recesses  of 
her  heart. 

When  he  hesitates  before  a  closed  door,  she 
will  say,  with  a  smile:  "Nay — not  there." 
When  he  pauses  at  a  desolated  altar,  en 
shrouded  in  a  wonderful  silken  fabric  that  has 
lain  long  among  roses,  she  will  lead  him  away 
swiftly,  lest  he  guess  what  lies  hidden  beneath. 
If  he  turns  at  the  sound  of  a  ghostly  footfall  in 
the  corridor  behind  him  she  will  answer  his 
thought,  saying:  ""  Pis  merely  the  sound  of 
thine  own  steps.  Come." 

By  devious  paths  she  brings  him  at  last  to 
her  holy  of  holies,  pausing  for  an  instant  to 
question  him  with  her  eyes  before  she  opens 
wide  the  door.  Having  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  her  love  of  her  own  whiteness,  she 
shrinks  back  into  the  shadow,  praying  that  he 
may  understand. 

But  too  often  the  man's  eyes,  fogged  by  the 
mists  of  passion,  turn,  burning,  to  her  as  if  to 
say:  "What  is  this  to  which  you  have  brought 
me?  I  want  you!" 

Then,  if  she  has  the  strength  and  the  courage 


146 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


Barriers 
Crumble 


she  will  close  the  door  quickly,  murmuring, 
"Nay — nay,  it  is  nothing.  Come — we  will 
hasten  back/'  Thus  she  leads  him  to  the 
entrance  again,  and  graciously  bids  him  fare 
well. 

Once  in  a  lifetime,  perhaps, — seldom  more, — 
the  man's  eyes  see  clearly  into  the  sanctuary, 
and  the  woman  starts  toward  him  out  of  the 
shadow  with  a  cry  of  gladness  that  rings 
through  the  desolation  like  the  peal  of  a  silver 
trumpet.  There  is  nothing  there  but  white 
ness,  bareness,  yet,  to  him  who  understands, 
the  place  is  holy. 

He  has  only  to  reach  out  his  hand  to  the 
woman,  and  say,  "Come — let  us  kneel  and 
worship  together."  Then,  as  by  magic,  all 
the  barriers  crumble  into  dust,  the  cobwebs 
vanish,  and  the  dead  dreams  rise  again,  radiant, 
having  put  on  the  garments  of  immortality. 

Night  after  night,  when  the  tasks  of  the  day 
are  done,  the  woman  will  lead  him  to  her  heart 
and  show  him  all.  With  her,  he  will  restore 
the  broken  illusions  and  comfort  the  lost  faiths 
until  they  cease  to  mourn.  The  desolated 
altars  will  be  made  fair  again,  and  the  en 
shrouding  tapestries  folded  and  put  away. 
At  the  last,  with  laughter  which  has  in  it  no 
hint  of  sadness,  she  will  show  him  the  room  in 
which  she  has  endeavoured  to  reshape  her 
ideals  in  accordance  with  her  realities — and 
has  failed. 


H  Woman's  Ifoafr 


He,  too,  may  laugh,  though  his  eyes  soften 
with  pity.  Swiftly  she  will  understand  that 
hereafter  in  that  same  room,  they  are  to  labour 
together,  shaping,  moulding,  and  lifting  their 
realities  to  the  ideal,  but  they  will  not  speak 
of  this — because  Love  has  no  need  of  words. 

When  Miss  Cynthia  went  down,  Judith  and 
Carter  were  sitting  decorously  opposite  each 
other  on  the  lower  veranda.  Only  the  light 
in  the  young  man's  eyes  and  Judith's  loosened 
hair  betrayed  them. 

"  I  've  missed  you,"  said  Miss  Cynthia. 

"And  I  you.  I  was  very  lonely  last  evening 
with  no  one  to  abuse  me  and  tell  me  of  my 
faults." 

"Who  should  tell  you  of  your  faults,  if  not 
I  ?  Am  I  not  soon  to  be  a  relative?" 

"What  do  you  call  soon?"  parried  Carter. 

"It's  a  relative  term,  merely.  Can  your 
legal  mind  grasp  the  subtlety  of  that?" 

"With  an  effort,  yes."  Then,  with  a  quick 
change  of  tone,  he  went  on:  "Can  you  be 
serious  for  a  few  minutes?" 

"If  it's  absolutely  necessary." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  when 
Judith  and  I  are  married?" 

"Give  you  a  present,  of  course.  You  ex 
pect  it,  don't  you?  Have  you  decided  upon 
what  you  want?" 

"  You  promised  to  be  serious,"  Carter  said, 


Ggntb.a'0 
privilege 


148 


B  Small 
parcel 


reproachfully.  "  Will  you  come  to  live  with  us  ? 
We  both  want  you — really."  Miss  Cynthia 
wiped  away  a  hasty  tear. 

"We  do/'  said  Judith.  "Oh,  dear  Aunt 
Cynthia,  won't  you  come?" 

The  old  lady  was  deeply  touched,  yet  she 
hid  it  with  a  smile.  "  You  may  think  you  want 
me,"  she  murmured,  "  but  you  don't.  Besides, 
you  annoy  me  terribly  with  your  love-making." 

"We  won't  take  no  for  an  answer,"  Carter 
said,  firmly.  "  If  you  won't  come  of  your  own 
accord,  we  '11  kidnap  you  in  the  most  modern 
fashion,  by  automobile." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Cynthia. 

"Is  that  a  promise?" 

"No.  I  won't  promise,  but  I  '11  think  about 
it.  Come  in  to  dinner." 

That  evening,  while  Miss  Cynthia  sat  a  lit 
tle  apart  from  them,  they  talked  House.  In 
their  thoughts,  the  word  always  began  with  a 
capital.  When  she  slipped  away  to  bed,  she 
was  unobserved.  Some  little  time  afterward, 
when  they  noted  her  absence,  they  left  the 
subject  of  House  and  took  up  Personalities. 

It  was  later  than  usual  when  Carter  began 
to  go  home.  "Wait  a  minute,"  said  Judith. 
"  I  forgot  something." 

She  came  back,  presently,  with  a  small 
parcel  wrapped  in  tissue  paper.  "It's  Mar 
gery  Gordon's  stockings,"  she  said.  "You 
forgot  to  give  them  to  her." 


H  Woman's  tmfr 


149 


"Oh,"  said  Carter,  awkwardly.  "Did  I?" 
He  took  the  parcel,  put  it  into  his  pocket,  then 
there  was  silence,  but  not  of  the  intimate  sort 
which  does  not  require  speech.  Carter  stood 
first  upon  one  foot,  then  upon  the  other,  trying 
desperately  to  think  of  something  to  say. 

Then  Judith  lifted  her  face  to  his.  "Good 
night,  dear.  It 's  very  late." 

"Good-night,  darling." 

Conflicting  emotions  swayed  him  as  he  went 
down  the  road.  Surely  there  is  nothing  more 
exasperating  to  a  man  than  to  feel  himself 
under  the  necessity  of  making  an  explanation 
to  a  woman  who  has  not  asked  for  it.  By 
some  subtle  feminine  method,  he  had  been  put 
in  the  wrong,  and  he  squirmed  under  the 
awkwardness  of  it. 

Then,  by  an  heroic  effort,  he  dismissed  it  as 
a  thing  of  no  moment.  Almost  immediately 
it  was  back,  confronting  him  from  new  angles 
and  offering  unsuspected  points  of  view. 
Resentment  against  Judith  smouldered,  then 
burst  into  flame.  Yet,  after  all,  what  had  she 
done?  What  else  could  she  have  done? 

Of  course  he  had  dropped  the  stockings,  but 
how  had  she  known  to  whom  they  belonged? 
Had  Margery  told  her,  or  by  the  uncanny 
cleverness  which  is  the  birthright  of  every 
woman,  had  she  divined  it?  "I  should  have 
spoken  of  it,"  he  muttered.  "  I  forgot — 
that 's  all." 


put  in  tbe 


H  Meaver  of  Dreams 


flOucb 
Bnnogefe 


But,  as  the  night  waned,  Carter's  conscience 
actively  reminded  him  that  he  had  n't  forgot 
ten  it — indeed  that  he  had  purposely  avoided 
all  the  easy  conversational  paths  that  might 
have  led  to  Margery  and  the  car.  He  was 
conscious  of  the  parcel  upon  his  dresser;  it 
seemed  that  the  stockings  might  speak  to  him, 
if  they  wanted  to.  Miserably  he  hoped  that 
they  would  n't,  then  laughed  a  little,  at  his 
own  disordered  fancy. 

Why  in  thunder  could  n't  Judith  take  them 
back  herself  ?  Or  send  them  back  ?  Or  mail 
them  ?  Or  write  a  note  to  Margery  and  ask 
her  to  come  and  get  her  infernal  parcel  ?  Why 
should  a  young  and  promising  lawyer  be  kept 
awake  by  a  pair  of  blue  silk  stockings  ? 

Hitherto,  he  had  never  known  Judith  to  fail 
in  tact.  Why  did  she  speak  of  it  when  she 
knew  how  the  stockings  had  happened  to  be 
there,  and  to  whom  they  belonged  ?  A  more 
gracious,  kindly  woman  would  not  have  brought 
the  matter  to  his  notice.  Judith  must  have 
known  that  it  would  annoy  him. 

Perhaps — the  thought  made  Carter  sit  up  in 
bed,  wide  awake — perhaps  that  was  why  she 
had  done  it!  He  knew  that  Judith  went  to 
Chandler's  on  Monday  and  Thursday  after 
noons.  What  would  have  been  easier  than 
for  her  to  put  the  things  in  her  pocket — if  she 
had  one — next  Monday,  and  give  them  to 
the  owner  with  some  graceful  and  appropriate 


H  Moman's  tmir 


remark,  such  as — well,  such  as:  "Here,  Mar 
gery — here  's  your  socks!" 

"She  could  say  it  just  as  well  as  not,"  he 
thought,  wretchedly,  "  but  she  expects  me  to." 

He  was  aroused  from  uneasy  slumber  by 
the  carrier  pigeon  cooing  at  his  window.  "Go 
away,"  murmured  Carter,  turning  his  back  to 
the  window,  but  the  persistent  bird  lingered, 
even  after  he  had  received  his  morning  ration 
of  corn.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
send  the  stockings  back  to  Judith  by  the 
pigeon,  but — no,  that  would  n't  do.  Even 
if  he  fastened  one  firmly  to  each  leg,  the  bird 
would  never  get  there  with  them.  And  how 
the  whole  village  would  gape  at  the  apparition 
in  the  skies — a  pigeon  with  a  pair  of  long  silk 
stockings  dangling  from  his  hampered  body! 

As  the  messenger  was  still  waiting,  Carter 
wrote  a  note.  It  was  brief,  but  to  the  point, 
being,  merely:  "  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  tell  you. — 
CARTER." 

He  was  asleep  when  the  answer  came,  but 
went  eagerly  to  the  window  to  get  it.  That, 
too,  was  brief:  "  It  does  n't  matter. — JUDITH." 
By  all  the  dictates  of  reason,  he  should  have 
felt  better,  but  he  did  n't. 

That  day  he  chanced  to  see,  in  a  jeweller's 
window,  a  silver  chain  from  which  hung  a 
single  abalone  pearl,  set  in  dull  silver.  He 
took  it  to  Judith  that  night  and  presented 
it  to  her,  with  careless  grace.  She  was  de 


ft  "Mote 
anfe  its 

Bnswec 


152 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


T&irter  an 
Bpple 
"Cue 


lighted,  and  even  Miss  Cynthia  thought  it  was 
lovely. 

Nothing  was  said  of  the  stockings,  nor  did 
Judith  seem  to  avoid  the  topic.  She  made  no 
allusion  to  the  message  the  pigeon  had  brought, 
knowing,  doubtless,  that  for  a  man  to  say  he 
is  sorry,  or  to  stammer  out  the  words,  "forgive 
me,"  indicates  unsounded  depths  of  abasement 
and  devotion. 

Sunday  morning,  the  stockings  still  con 
fronted  him  from  his  chiffonier.  Desiring  to 
get  the  thing  over  with  as  soon  as  possible,  he 
determined  to  go  to  Chandler's  that  afternoon 
for  perhaps  fifteen  minutes,  take  him  a  book 
or  a  magazine,  and  when  he  was  leaving, 
apparently  as  a  careless  afterthought,  give 
Margery  her  troublesome  personal  property. 

When  he  stopped  the  car  at  the  gate,  the 
place  seemed  deserted.  Inside,  having  passed 
a  wakeful  night,  Chandler  slept  soundly  in  his 
chair.  Carter  went  around  to  the  back  door, 
in  search  of  a  servant,  and  at  the  apple-tree 
came  upon  Margery,  who  did  not  see  him  at 
first. 

She  sat  upon  a  low  stool,  with  her  white 
skirts  heaped  around  her — a  mass  of  lace  and 
frills.  Around  her,  gleaming  in  the  sun,  fell 
a  mass  of  golden  hair,  rippling  to  the  ground 
and  veiling  her  face. 

Carter  caught  his  breath.  Copper  and 
burnished  gold,  yet  having  the  texture  of  silk; 


H  Moman's  1bair 


153 


sinuous,  alive,  wonderful!  The  colour  of  a 
sunset  gleaming  upon  polished  brass,  faint 
hints  of  iridescence  here  and  there — hair  to 
blind  men's  eyes  and  weave  itself  into  a  sorcery 
i  from  whence  there  was  no  escape! 

Margery  stood  up,  her  back  toward  him, 
humming  the  merest  fragment  of  a  song.  It 
bore  no  relation  whatever  to  any  tune  he  had 
ever  heard.  She  put  her  hands  up  to  the  back 
of  her  neck,  divided  her  hair,  spread  it  out  to 
arm's  length,  then  let  it  fall,  slowly — a  cloud  of 
golden  mist. 

"Margery!"  the  man  breathed,  huskily. 

She  turned,  quickly,  with  a  rush  of  colour 
staining  her  face.  "  Oh-h ! "  she  gasped.  "How 
you  frightened  me!" 

"Did  I?  I  'm  sorry.  I  just  came  to  bring 
these  back."  He  offered  her  the  parcel. 

"Thank  you.  It 's  more  than  kind  of  you. 
I  was  very  stupid  to  forget." 

"Not  at  all." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  an 
awkward  moment,  then  Margery  turned  to 
ward  the  house,  murmuring  the  timeworn 
phrase  which  the  girl-child  probably  learns 
just  after  she  has  been  taught  to  say  "mamma 
and  papa." 

"  I  've  just  washed  my  hair  and  I  can't  do 
a  thing  with  it!" 

"  It 's  beautiful,"  Carter  said,  in  all  sincerity. 

"Are  it?"  queried  Margery,  with    a  side- 


154  ' 


H  Meaver  ot  Dreams 


Ht  peace 

with 
Ibimself 


long  glance  that  set  his  heart  to  thumping 
wildly. 

"It  are,"  he  rejoined,  solemnly.  Subcon 
sciously  he  reflected  that  no  man  could  say 
"it  are"  to  Judith. 

They  had  reached  the  veranda  now.  "Will 
you  come  in  ?"  Margery  asked,  politely.  "  I  '11 
wake  Mr.  Chandler  and  go  up  to  put  myself  in 
order." 

"Thank  you,  no.  Just  give  him  this  little 
book  and  say  that  I  called.  I  have  an  engage 
ment  and  I  'm  late  now." 

"Then  good-bye,  and  thank  you." 

"  You  're  welcome.    Good-bye." 

The  blood  beat  hard  in  his  pulses  as  he 
climbed  into  the  car.  As  he  had  said,  he  had 
an  engagement  and  was  late,  but  he  drove  the 
car  at  top  speed  through  the  dust  for  nearly 
two  hours  before  he  stopped  at  Miss  Cynthia's 
gate,  weary  and  travel-stained,  but  at  peace 
with  himself. 


155 


XI 

"parliamentary  Xaw" 

• 

THE  sorrel  mare  brushed  away  the  flies  matting 
vigorously.  For  more  than  half  an  hour 
she  had  stood  in  front  of  a  yellow  house  with 
green  blinds,  pleasantly  set  in  the  midst  of  a 
garden,  "somewhat  back  from  the  village 
street." 

The  garden  seemed  to  be  cool,  but  the  road 
was  very  hot  and  dusty.  Everything  was 
quiet  but  the  flies.  Even  the  old  man  who  sat 
in  the  buggy,  loosely  holding  the  reins,  was 
apparently  asleep.  From  the  house  issued  a 
low,  murmurous  sound  to  be  compared  only  to 
that  made  by  a  hive  of  bees.  Now  and  then,  a 
sharp  penetrating  voice,  a  little  higher  in  pitch 
than  the  rest,  rose  above  the  clamour  for  an 
instant,  then  died  away. 

The  bent  old  figure  in  the  buggy  nodded  and 
the  reins  slipped  from  his  hand.  The  mare 
brushed  away  more  flies,  snorted,  and  took  a 
few  steps  forward. 

"Whoa,  Molly!  Stand  still,  that's  a  good 
girl.  I  reckon  she  '11  be  comin'  by-and-bye." 

To    guard   against   further   mishap,  Uncle 


156 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


Ube  Group 
at  tbe  ©ate 


Henry  tied  the  reins  to  the  dashboard,  made 
himself  a  little  more  comfortable  on  the  wide, 
low  seat,  and  settled  back  into  the  shade. 

One  by  one,  three  women  came  from  the 
house,  then  a  group  of  four  or  five.  Then,  after 
a  brief  interval,  two  more  appeared  and  joined 
the  larger  group  at  the  gate.  Nobody  spoke  to 
Uncle  Henry,  but  they  softened  their  voices 
instinctively  as  they  approached  him. 

Another  woman,  with  her  hat  somewhat 
askew  and  her  face  flushed,  came  quickly  down 
the  walk,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left.  She  passed  the  group  at  the  gate  without 
speaking.  They  watched  her,  open-mouthed, 
until  she  had  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
then  two  turned  and  followed  at  a  respectful 
distance,  and  the  others  went  around  to  the 
back  of  the  house. 

Molly  looked  anxiously  toward  the  house 
and  switched  valiantly  at  the  tormenting  flies. 
She  longed  for  the  shade  of  the  barnyard, 
the  trough  of  cool  water,  and  the  impertinent 
collie  that  sometimes  snapped  at  her  heels,  but 
only  for  fun.  She  pawed  the  earth  nervously, 
then  sent  forth  a  long  whinny  that  woke  Uncle 
Henry  and  speedily  brought  Aunt  Belinda  to 
the  gate. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  was  here,  Henry," 
the  old  lady  said,  as  she  climbed  in.  "Have 
you  been  waitin'  long?" 

"Better  part  of  an  hour,  I   reckon.    You 


"  parliamentary  %aw" 


157 


told  me  to  be  here  at  five  o'clock  and  I  was." 
He  consulted  his  worn  silver  watch.  "It's 
nigh  on  to  six  now." 

"My  sakes  alive!"  cried  Aunt  Belinda. 
"  It 's  a  lucky  thing  there  ain't  much  to  do  to 
supper  aside  from  warmin'  it  up.  He 's  not 
comin'  home  till  late.  She 's  gone  to  town 
and  they  're  goin'  to  have  supper  together 
some  place  and  go  to  the  the-ay-ter  afterward." 
As  "he"  meant  Carter,  "she"  was  always 
Judith.  "  I  'd  have  come  sooner  if  I  'd 
knowed  you  was  waitin'." 

"You  could  have  looked,"  he  suggested. 
He  had  passed  the  time  very  pleasantly,  doz 
ing,  but  his  masculine  nature  instinctively 
took  the  opportunity  to  show  how  gracefully 
a  superior  being  could  endure  annoyance. 

"  I  did  n't  know  they  was  goin'  to  be  so  late," 
Aunt  Belinda  went  on,  "or  I  'd  have  told  you 
different.  I  ain't  never  liked  to  be  the  first  one 
to  leave  the  Sewin'  Circle.  If  there  's  talkin' 
to  be  done,  I  'd  rather  not  be  the  one  it 's 
about,  and  by  stayin'  till  all  the  others  have 
gone,  there  ain't  likely  to  be  anythin'  said  about 
me.  I  reckon  they  won't  talk  about  me  to 
day,  though." 

Uncle  Henry  grunted  an  unintelligible  assent. 
"Get  up,  Molly!"  He  was  hungry,  and  from 
preparations  he  had  come  upon  in  the  pantry 
just  before  he  left  home,  surmised  that  there 
would  be  hot  biscuit  for  supper. 


Hunt 
SellnCa's 

JEfcuses 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Obis' 
Stebbms 


"On  account  of  its  bein'  the  last  meeting 
there  was  considerable  business  to  be  took  up 
anyway,  and  Mis'  Jed  Stebbins  was  there 
from  over  to  the  Ridge.  She  come  with  her 
sister-in-law.  She 's  visitin'  her.  Just  got 
here  yesterday  and  there  was  n't  a  one  of  us 
had  heard  of  her  comin'  till  she  walked  in." 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  which  was  meant 
to  be  tantalising,  but  was  not.  Uncle  Henry 
was  considering  whether  or  not  there  might 
be  honey  with  the  biscuits.  "Well?"  he  said, 
at  length,  in  the  tone  of  polite  inquiry  a  hus 
band  uses  when  he  means  "what  of  it?" 

"Well,  as  I  was  sayin',"  resumed  Aunt 
Belinda,  clearing  her  throat,  "none  of  us  knew 
she  was  here  till  she  come  in.  There  was 
plenty  of  business  before  the  meetin'  as  it  was. 
We  'd  met  to  decide  what  to  do  with  all  the 
money  there  was  in  the  treasury." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Henry  again,  "what  did 
you  do  with  it?" 

"Nothin'.  We  ain't  done  nothin'  with  it 
and  ain't  like  to,  unless  we  meet  again  after 
Mis'  Jed  Stebbins  has  gone  back  where  she 
belongs,  and  I  understand  she 's  like  to  stay 
until  after  the  cannin'  and  preservin'  season  is 
over.  She  was  tellin'  us  about  her  cousin's 
wife's  mother's  raspberry  jam.  She  puts 
almonds  in  it — blanched  almonds.  Did  you 
ever  hear  the  like  of  that?" 

"It  sounds  good,"  commented  Uncle  Henry 


parliamentary  3Law" 


159 


with  an  accession  of  interest.  "Was  you 
layin'  out  to  have  honey  to-night  with  them 
biscuits?" 

"  Mis'  Dunlap  had  to  go  home  to  see  to  her 
supper,"  Aunt  Belinda  went  on,  heedless  of  the 
intrusion  of  an  alien  topic  into  the  conversa 
tion.  '"  She  told  Mis'  Stebbins  that  she  need  n't 
hurry — that  she  could  come  whenever  she 
liked — and  so  she  stayed,  and  the  rest  of  us 
did  n't  have  no  chance." 

"What  about  the  money  in  the  treasury?" 

"  I  'm  comin'  to  that  as  fast  as  I  can.  Mis' 
Stebbins  was  in  the  city  all  last  Winter  with 
some  relatives  of  her  husband's  while  he  was  in 
the  hospital  havin'  his  insides  took  out  and  put 
in  different,  and  her  cousin's  wife's  mother 
took  her  to  what  in  the  city  they  call  a 
Woman's  Club." 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Uncle  Henry, 
with  a  suggestion  of  resentment.  The  phrase 
was  not  reassuring. 

"Just  the  same  as  a  Sewin'  Circle  as  far  as  I 
see,  only  it 's  a  different  name.  They  don't 
sew  none." 

"Who  do  they  club?" 

"Each  other,  I  reckon.  Mis'  Stebbins  was 
sayin'  that  they  marked  historic  spots  where 
battles  was  fought  with  brass  tablets  and  she 
said  her  cousin's  wife's  mother  said  one  day 
right  out  in  meetin'  that  charity  began  at 
home  and  she  thought  they  ought  to  put  a 


m 

Woman's 


i6o 


a  Weaver  of  Breams 


brass  tablet  by  their  own  front  door.  Mis' 
Stebbins  was  laughin'  about  it  but  nobody  else 
did.  'Tain't  good  manners  to  have  jokes  all 
to  yourself.  That 's  what  it  says  in  my  maga 
zine,  anyway." 

"Go  on,"  said  Uncle  Henry,  submissively. 
Evidently  there  was  a  certain  amount  of 
conversation  to  be  unloaded  from  Aunt 
Belinda's  mind  before  she  could  be  induced  to 
consider  the  more  inspiring  subject  of  biscuits. 

"As  I  was  sayin'  when  you  interrupted  me, as 
soon  as  we  was  all  there,  Mis'  Christy  bein'  late 
on  account  of  her  youngest  boy  havin'  fell  into 
the  cistern,  Mis'  Marshall  says:  'Well,  ladies, 
what  are  we  goin'  to  do  with  the  money  we 
have  in  the  treasury?' 

"  Before  any  of  us  could  say  a  word,  Mis'  Jed 
Stebbins  says,  like  she  was  terrible  astonished: 
'Why,  ladies !  Don't  you  conduct  your  meetin's 
accordin'  to  parlimenty  law?" 

"  Par-li-a-mentary,"  Uncle  Henry  corrected. 
"  It  means  the  laws  made  by  Parliament,  over 
in  England." 

"What 's  that  got  to  do  with  the  Edgerton 
Ladies  Baptist  Sewin'  Circle  and  Missionary 
Society?"  demanded  Aunt  Belinda. 

"  I  dunno,"  Uncle  Henry  murmured, 
pacifically. 

"No  more  do  I.  But  Mis'  Stebbins  was 
settin'  there  like  she  was  a  teacher  and  we  was 
her  class.  And  Mis'  Marshall  says  to  her, 


parliamentary  3Law" 


161 


very  polite:  'How  is  that?'  And  Mis' 
Stebbins  says:  'La  sakes!  Ain't  you  got  no 
constitution  and  by-laws?' 

"  I  spoke  up  then  and  I  says  my  constitution 
is  fair  to  middlin',  in  spite  of  havin'  come  from 
a  family  what  died  young,  but  I  had  n't  any 
by-laws  now  that  my  husband's  immediate 
family  was  all  dead.  And  Mis'  Dunlap 
snickered  and  said:  'Blessed  are  them  as  has 
no  by-laws.'  I  reckon  she 's  had  her  own 
troubles  with  Mis'  Stebbins. 

"Mis'  Stebbins  says  then  that  the  constitu 
tion  and  by-laws  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with 
our  systems  and  our  relations.  She  says  it's 
the  rules  the  society  goes  by.  Mis'  Marshall 
says  we  ain't  never  had  no  rules  to  go  by. 
We  just  talked  things  over  and  what  the 
most  of  us  approved  was  done,  sometimes 
peaceful  and  sometimes  not,  but  it  did  n't 
matter  as  long  as  it  was  did.  And  then  she 
smiled  at  Mis'  Stebbins,  but  us  what  knew  her 
could  see  she  was  gettin'  mad,  and  she  says: 
'Could  your  city  Woman's  Club  that  you're 
speakin'  of  do  any  different  than  that?' 

"'Oh,  my,  yes,'  says  Mis'  Stebbins.  'If 
you  like,  I  '11  conduct  this  meetin'  accordin' 
to  parlimenty  law,'  and  everybody  but  Mis' 
Marshall  says  'Yes — do!' 

"Mis'  Stebbins  bows  and  smiles  and  says: 
'I  bow  to  the  wishes  of  the  majority,  though 
I  'd  sooner  it  would  be  unaminous' — this  last 


Conrtftn* 

tion  an& 


1 62 


Ube 

Tbammer 


evidently  bein'  meant  for  Mis'  Marshall,  who 
was  gettin'  more  mad  every  minute.  Then 
Mis'  Stebbins  says:  'If  you  please,  I  will  take 
the  chair,'  and  she  makes  Mis'  Marshall  move 
over  on  the  sofy  beside  old  Mis'  Harper,  though 
nobody  wanted  to  set  by  her  on  account  of 
bein'  expected  to  yell  into  her  ear-trumpet 
everythin'  that  was  said,  and  on  account  of  her 
havin'  had  fleas  very  recent  and  smellin' 
terrible  strong  of  pennyroyal. 

"  Mis'  Marshall  set  where  she  was  told,  but 
all  the  time  her  mad  was  risin', — you  could 
see  that.  Everybody  but  Mis'  Stebbins. 
She  was  settin'  there  in  Mis'  Marshall's  chair 
as  peaceful  and  quiet  as  could  be,  and  she  says: 
Tor  the  present,  we  will  assume  that  I  am  the 
President  of  the  Edgerton  Ladies  Baptist 
Sewin'  Circle  and  Missionary  Society.  Mis' 
Blake,  would  you  mind  gettin'  me  the  hammer? ' 

"Mis'  Blake  went  out  and  come  in  with  the 
hatchet  and  the  tack-hammer.  'Which  '11  you 
have?'  says  she,  and  Mis'  Stebbins  took  the 
tack  hammer,  which  relieved  the  minds  of  us 
all  some,  and  then  she  pounded  three  or  four 
times  on  Mis'  Blake's  best  walnut  table,  leavin' 
marks  that  '11  have  to  be  took  out  by  a  hot 
iron,  and  says  in  a  loud  voice:  'The  meetin' 
will  please  come  to  order.'  Yes,  Henry,  just 
like  that.  Them  's  her  very  words. 

"You  c'd  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  and  then 
Mis'  Harper  pushes  the  end  of  her  ear-trumpet 


parliamentary  Xaw 


163 


over  to  Mis'  Marshall,  and  says:  'What's 
that?  What  did  she  say?'  And  Mis'  Mar 
shall  says,  'She  said  the  meetin'  would  please 
come  to  order,'  and  Mis'  Harper  says,  'What 
does  she  mean  by  that?'  And  Mis'  Stebbins 
calls  out:  'Tell  her  I  mean  for  her  to  keep  still.' 
So  Mis'  Marshall  yelled  that  into  the  trumpet, 
and  ol'  Mis'  Harper  grunted  and  took  out  a 
pep-mint  lozenge,  and  begun  to  munch  on  it. 

"Then  Mis'  Stebbins  says:  'The  secretary 
will  please  read  the  minutes  of  the  last  meetin'.' 

"Nobody  said  anything  and  then  Mis' 
Blake  spoke  up  and  says:  'What  do  you  mean 
by  that?' 

"'Lasakes!'  says  Mis'  Stebbins.  'Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  you  ain't  got  no  secretary?' 

"'There's  one  upstairs,'  says  Mis'  Blake, 
'but  I  wa'n't  never  one  to  keep  a  writin'  desk 
in  the  parlour.  If  you  want  a  secretary, 
you  '11  have  to  go  upstairs  where  't  is.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  have  it  brung  down  here  to  be 
hammered  on.' 

"'I  mean,'  says  Mis'  Stebbins,  very  soft, 
'the  woman  what  keeps  the  records  of  the 
society.  She  writes  down  at  every  meetin' 
everythin'  that 's  said  and  done,  and  at  the 
next  meetin'  she  reads  it  out  loud,  so  as  them 
that  was  n't  here  can  know  what  went  on  in 
their  absence,  and  them  as  was  here  can 
refresh  their  memories.' 

"Mis'   Marshall   spoke  up  then   and   says 


a 

Secretary 


164 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Coma 
mitteea 


somethin'  about  its  bein'  no  wonder  they 
wanted  a  battle-tablet  at  the  door  of  the 
Woman's  Club,  and  Mis'  Harper  puts  her  ear- 
trumpet  over  and  Mis'  Marshall  pushes  it 
away  from  her.  Every  minute  she  was  gettin' 
more  mad. 

"If  there  are  no  objections/  Mis'  Stebbins 
went  on,  'the  chair  will  appoint  as  a  Committee 
on  Constitution  and  By-laws,  Mis'  Blake, 
Mis'  Marshall,  and  Mis'  Harper,  the  committee 
to  be  ready  with  a  report  and  a  preliminary 
draft  of  the  constitution  at  the  next  meetin'. 
And  as  a  Committee  on  Nominations,  the 
chair  appoints  Mis'  Dunlap,  Mis'  Christy,  and 
Mis'  Warner' — that 's  me. 

"Mis'  Harper,  havin'  heard  her  name  and 
bein'  unable  to  get  anythin'  out  of  Mis'  Mar 
shall  next  to  her,  gets  up  and  comes  over  and 
puts  the  ear-trumpet  into  Mis'  Stebbins'  face 
and  says:  'What's  that?  What  was  you 
sayin'  about  me?'  So  Mis'  Stebbins  hollers 
into  the  ear-trumpet:  'I  appointed  you  a 
member  of  the  Committee  on  Constitution  and 
By-laws  with  Mis'  Blake  and  Mis'  Marshall.' 

"'Oh/  says  Mis'  Harper.  'My  constitution 
ain't  been  very  strong  since  I  lost  my  hearin/ 
but  I  '11  do  the  best  I  can/  she  says.  'Will  you 
have  a  pep-mint?' 

"'No,  thank  you/  says  Mis'  Stebbins  into 
the  trumpet.  'Please  go  back  and  set  down 
where  you  was,  by  Mis'  Marshall/ 


parliamentary  Xaw 


165 


'"Mebbe  you'll  enjoy  it  later  on/  says 
Mis'  Harper,  layin'  the  pep-mint  down  on 
the  table  in  front  of  Mis'  Stebbins.  Mis' 
Marshall  had  moved  away  from  the  sofy  and 
was  settin'  on  the  stool  in  front  of  the  melodeon, 
but  Mis'  Harper,  havin'  been  told  to  set  by 
her,  goes  out  and  gets  a  kitchen  chair  and  drags 
it  in  and  sets  it  down  close  by  Mis'  Marshall, 
with  the  ear  trXimpet  good  and  handy  on  the 
melodeon. 

"'If  there  are  no  minutes/  says  Mis'  Steb 
bins,  'we  will  proceed  with  the  unfinished 
business/ 

"'What's  that?'  says  Mis'  Blake. 

"'Whatever  was  left  over  from  the  last 
meetin'/  says  Mis'  Stebbins. 

"Mis'  Dunlap  spoke  up  then,  and  says,  'If 
I  recollect,  it  was  at  my  house,  and  there  wa'n't 
nothin'  left  over  but  a  little  piece  of  pound 
cake  and  mebbe  half  a  cup  of  tea/ 

"You  know  Mis'  Dunlap  is  stingy  and  Mis' 
Christy  spoke  out  and  says:  'Don't  let  it 
disturb  you,  Mis'  Dunlap.  I  'm  quite  sure 
nothin'  will  be  wasted,  and  I  don't  doubt 
you  're  still  usin'  them  tea-grounds/ 

"Mis'  Stebbins  pounded  on  the  table  with 
the  hammer  and  beat  off  some  more  varnish — 
I  dunno  as  a  hot  iron  '11  do  it  any  good,  and 
I  reckon  Mis'  Blake  will  have  to  have  it 
scraped  and  done  over,  and  if  I  was  her,  I  'd 
send  the  bill  for  it  to  Mis'  Stebbins — and  Mis' 


TUnfinisbcb 
JSusinees 


1 66 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


IRew 

3S5usinc08 


Stebbins  says  again:  'The  meetin'  will  please 
come  to  order.'  I  suppose  she  was  mad  be 
cause  her  relative  was  bein'  sassed,  even  though 
it  was  only  a  relative  by  marriage. 

"Mis'  Harper  had  to  be  told  what  was  bein' 
said,  and  then  things  got  quiet  again.  Mis' 
Stebbins  says:  'If  there  is  no  unfinished  busi 
ness  before  the  house,  we  will  proceed  with  the 
new  business.' 

"After  this  was  put  into  Mis'  Harper's 
trumpet,  everybody  was  quiet  but  Mis'  Christy. 
She  was  puttin'  a  patch  into  the  next  to  the 
oldest  boy's  shirt,  and  she  leans  over  and 
whispers  to  Mis'  Blake  that  she  's  used  up  all 
the  patches  she  has  and  has  been  obliged  to 
cut  a  piece  out  'n  the  tail,  and  she  reckons  the 
shirt  is  like  England's  flag,  cause  the  son  ain't 
never  goin'  to  set  on  it.  Do  you  see  any 
sense  to  that?" 

"No,"  said  Uncle  Henry,  seeing  that  an 
answer  was  expected.  Two  hot  and  dusty 
miles  still  lay  between  him  and  the  land  of 
biscuits  and  honey. 

"No  more  do  I,  nor  anybody  else,  but  Mis' 
Stebbins  pounded  another  nick  in  the  varnish, 
and  says:  'The  meetin'  will  please  come  to 
order.  What  is  the  new  business  before  the 
house?'  But  nobody  said  anythinV 

"Then  Mis'  Stebbins  says,  very  haughty- 
like:  'Ladies,  I  see  that  the  processes  of  parli- 
menty  law  are  confusin'  to  beginners.  Would 


parliamentary  Xaw" 


167 


one  of  you  mind  tellin'  me,  just  as  woman  to 
woman,  what  this  meetin'  is  held  for?' 

"'As  there  is  no  answer  from  the  floor'- 
did  you  ever  hear  anythin'  like  that,  Henry?— 
'I  will  ask  Mis'  Blake  to  tell  me  very  briefly 
why  this  meetin'  is  held.     As  it  is  in  her  house, 
I  presume  she  knows.' 

"'We  come/  says  Mis'  Blake,  'to  decide 
what  to  do  with  the  money  in  the  treasury  and 
to  have  a  cup  of  tea.' 

"'Oh/  says  Mis'  Stebbins.  'Now  I  know 
where  I  am.  We  will  take  up  the  disposal  of 
the  funds  in  the  treasury.  Ladies,  what  is 
your  pleasure?' 

"  None  of  us  was  havin'  any  pleasure,  as  I 
see,  so  nobody  said  anythin',  and  Mis'  Stebbins 
asked  who  the  treasurer  was.  Mis'  Blake 
said  that  there  wa'n't  no  treasurer — that 
Mr.  Marshall,  bein'  the  minister,  kept  the 
money. 

" '  Where  does  he  keep  it? '  asks  Mis'  Stebbins 
and  Mis'  Marshall  spoke  up  and  says:  'I  don't 
know  as  it 's  any  of  your  business,  but  it 's  in 
a  wallet  under  the  mattress  in  the  spare  room. 
There 's  seventy-eight  dollars  and  nineteen 
cents.' 

"'Well/  says  Mis'  Stebbins,  very  patient, 
'what  is  to  be  done  with  it?  What  is  the 
pleasure  of  the  meetin'?' 

"  Mis'  Christy  spoke  up  then,  havin'  finished 
the  patch,  and  she  says:  'I  dunno.  As  my 


II  be 
^Treasurer 


1 68 


H  TlXHeax>er  ot  Dreams 


BSH0. 
agreeable 
flDeettng 


oldest  son  says,  "You  c'n  search  me."  This 
is  the  most  disagreeable  meetin'  I  've  ever  had 
the  misfortune  to  attend.' 

"'Me  too/  says  Mis'  Marshall;  then,  seein' 
that  Mis'  Blake  had  begun  to  feel  bad,  she  says, 
very  polite,  'and  we  all  have  such  good  times 
at  Mis'  Blake's  house,  too.' 

"'What's  that?'  says  Mis'  Harper,  pokin' 
the  ear-trumpet  into  Mis'  Marshall's  face. 

"I  was  just  sayin','  Mis'  Marshall  yells  into 
it,  'that  we  all  have  such  good  times  at  Mis' 
Blake's  house,'  and  Mis'  Harper  smiles  and 
nods  at  Mis'  Blake  and  says:  'Yes — jes'  so.' 

"'Are  there  any  suggestions  to  be  made  in 
regard  to  the  disposal  of  this  money?'  asks 
Mis'  Stebbins,  and  nobody  says  anythin'. 

"Of  course  we  all  had  our  private  idees,  but 
we  wa'n't  goin'  to  explain  'em  to  Mis'  Stebbins. 
Mis'  Dunlap  got  up  and  says:  'I  must  ask  to 
be  excused,  as  I  have  a  guest  for  dinner.'  Yes, 
Henry,  that 's  what  she  said.  Mis'  Stebbins 
bein'  there  one  night  has  changed  'company 
for  supper'  into  'guest  for  dinner/ 

"Mis'  Dunlap  says  good-bye  to  everybody, 
tellin'  Mis'  Stebbins  that  she  don't  need  to 
hurry,  but  to  stay  as  long  as  she  's  enjoyin' 
herself,  and  after  Mis'  Blake  come  back  from 
seein'  her  to  the  door,  Mis'  Stebbins  says:  'If 
there  is  no  new  business  to  come  before  the 
house,  a  motion  to  adjourn  will  be  in  order/ 

"Nobody  says   anythin'  so   Mis'   Stebbins 


"  parliamentary  %aw 


169 


says,  'Mis'  Warner,  will  you  please  stand  up 
and  say:  "I  move  we  adjourn"  ?' 

"So  I  stood  up,  and  I  says:  'I  move  we 
adjourn/  and  Mis'  Stebbins  says:  'Mis'  Christy, 
will  you  please  stand  up  and  say:  "I  second 
the  motion"  ?'  So  Mis'  Christy  stands  up  and 
says:  'I  second  the  motion/  and  Mis'  Stebbins 
says:  'If  there  is  no  objection,  the  meeting 
stands  adjourned/ 

"Just  as  she  says  that,  she  takes  her  last 
whack  at  the  varnish  with  her  hammer,  and 
moves  her  chair  back  so  quick  that  she  catches 
one  leg  of  it  on  a  hole  in  the  carpet  and  falls 
over  backwards,  and  a  whole  lot  of  little 
sausages  made  of  hair  rolls  off  her  head  and  all 
over  the  parlour  floor.  I  'd  been  suspectin' 
it  was  false,  because  I  knowed  no  woman  could 
ever  make  her  natural  hair  look  like  that. 

"After  Mis'  Stebbins  and  the  sausages  was 
picked  up,  we  had  tea  that  had  stood  on  the 
grounds  so  long  it  was  bitter,  and  we  took 
turns  talkin'  into  Mis'  Harper's  trumpet  till 
it  was  time  to  go  home  and  some  had  gone. 
Everybody  was  waitin'  for  Mis'  Stebbins  to  go 
and  finally  she  went,  and  just  as  she  went  some 
of  those  as  had  gone  come  back  by  way  of  the 
back  door. 

"Mis'  Blake  was  at  the  door  with  Mis' 
Stebbins,  and  I  heard  her  say,  loud  and  clear: 
'Mis'  Stebbins,  if  that  table  and  that  hammer 
would  be  of  any  use  to  you,  you  're  quite  wel- 


Ube 
JDownfall 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


"Ubere'H 
»e 

Hnotbec ' 


come  to  take  'em  with  you.  Neither  of  'em 
is  of  any  use  to  me,  and  I  don't  reckon  they 
can  be  made  so/  she  says,  and  Mis'  Stebbins 
went  off  awful  mad  with  her  hat  over  one  ear. 

"  I  don't  blame  Mis'  Blake.  The  head  kept 
comin'  off  the  hammer  and  the  table  looked  as 
though  it  had  had  the  smallpox.  If  she  uses 
it,  she  'II  have  to  keep  it  covered  up.  When  I 
left,  Mis'  Harper  was  askin'  everybody  what 
a  constitution  was  and  Mis'  Christy  was  tellin' 
her  to  look  in  the  dictionary.  It  was  a  terrible 
excitin'  meetin'.  It  was  supposed  to  be  the 
last,  but  I  reckon  there  '11  be  another,  with 
Mis'  Stebbins  and  Mis'  Dunlap  left  out, 
though  I  don't  know  how  we  're  goin'  to 
manage  it  without  hurtin'  somebody's  feelin's." 

"  I  reckon  there  will,"  mused  Uncle  Henry, 
as  Molly  turned  into  the  shaded  driveway  of 
her  own  accord.  "  Did  you  say  you  was  layin' 
out  to  have  honey  for  supper,  Mother?" 

"  Mebbe.  I  ain't  been  thinkin'  much  about 
supper." 

"  I  saw  the  flour  measured  out  in  the  pantry 
and  the  bakin'  powder  can  down,  so  I  knowed 
there  was  goin'  to  be  biscuits.  I  've  always 
relished  honey  with  hot  biscuits,  and  sweet 
butter."  fc 

"So  have  I,"  murmured  Aunt  Belinda  as  she 
climbed  out,  at  the  back  door.  "You  put 
Molly  up,  Father,  and  just  as  soon  as  I  change 
my  dress,  I  '11  get  supper.  If  I  think  of  any- 


parliamentary  Slaw" 


171 


thin'  more  that  went  on  at  the  meetin',  I  '11 
tell  you  while  we  're  eatin'." 

"All  right,  Mother." 

Uncle  Henry  was  perfectly  willing  to  let  the 
remainder  of  the  meeting  rest  in  the  eternal 
oblivion  to  which  he  fain  would  consign  it, 
but  he  was  too  wise  to  say  so — before  supper. 


Consfgneti 
to  Oblivion 


172 


H  present 


XII 


flDifcsummer 


HANDLER  was  playing  solitaire,  that 
"last  resource  of  the  vacant  mind/' 
Margery  sat  near  him,  embroidering  the  last 
clover  blossom  upon  a  square  of  pale  green 
linen  destined  for  a  sofa  cushion.  "There," 
she  said,  holding  it  up  before  him.  "Is  n't  it 
pretty?" 

Chandler  nodded.  "Not  half  as  pretty  as 
you  are,"  was  upon  his  lips,  but  he  did  not  say 
it.  Instead,  he  asked:  "What's  it  for?" 

"It's  for  them." 

"Who  is  —  or  are  —  'them'?" 

"Judith  and  —  "  Margery  hesitated  for  an 
instant,  then  coloured  faintly  and  added— 
"Mr.  Keith." 

v  Oh  !    For  a  wedding  present  ?  " 

"No  —  just  because  they've  been  nice  to  me. 
I  was  in  their  house  the  other  day,  you  know, 
and  I  thought  I  'd  like  to  make  something 
for  it.  When  it  's  done,  I  'm  going  to  take  it 
up  there  and  leave  it  on  one  of  the  window 


flDi&summer 


173 


seats,  for  a  surprise.  They  '11  never  guess 
where  it  came  from." 

Chandler  thought  they  would  know  in 
stantly,  but  forebore  to  spoil  Margery's  plea 
sure  by  saying  so.  "  Did  you  ever  play  that 
game,"  he  asked,  "where  you  assign  to  people 
you  know  the  characteristics  of  a  flower,  and  a 
musical  instrument?" 

"No — how  do  you  do  it?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking  that  the  clover  blossoms 
suggested  you,  to  anyone  who  knew  you,  but 
forget-me-nots  would  be  better,  they  're  so 
like  your  eyes." 

"And  the  musical  instrument?"  she  queried. 
Like  most  very  young  women  she  was  un 
failingly  interested  in  personalities. 

"A  mandolin,"  he  said. 

Margery  folded  up  her  finished  work,  stuck 
her  needle  into  the  upholstered  arm  of  the  chair 
in  which  she  was  sitting,  and  hung  her  thimble 
upon  it.  "What  is  Judith?" 

"A  scarlet  poppy  and  her  own  harp." 

"And  Mr.  Keith?" 

Chandler  hesitated.  "It's  never  quite  so 
easy  to  place  a  man.  A  carnation,  perhaps, 
and  a  clarinet.  It's  your  turn  now.  What 
is  Miss  Bancroft  like?" 

"A  tea  rose — a  pale  pink  one,  and  either  a 
flute  or  a  violin — I  don't  know  which." 

"Violin,"  he  said,  half  dreamily,  "and  I  a 
broken  'cello."  His  face  saddened  as  he  spoke. 


B  (Same 


174 


H  Meaver  ot  2>reams 


personals 

Environs 
ment 


"What  is  Eliza?"  asked  Margery,  with 
quick  kindness. 

"A  cabbage,"  laughed  Chandler,  "and  an 
accordion.  There  is  no  poetry  to  be  connected 
with  Eliza." 

When  Judith  came  that  afternoon,  wearing 
her  scarlet  gown  to  please  Chandler,  Margery 
greeted  her  playfully. 

"  Did  your  ears  burn  this  morning  ?  We  were 
talking  about  you." 

"That  depends  upon  what  you  were  saying. 
One  is  n't  always  safe,  you  know,  even  with 
one  's  friends." 

"That  sounds  like  Miss  Bancroft,"  com 
mented  Chandler.  Judith  had  brought  him 
a  book,  a  small  basket  filled  with  strips  of 
candied  orange-peel,  and  a  paper  butterfly 
that  clung  to  whatever  it  touched,  waving  its 
wings  in  a  most  lifelike  fashion. 

"Doesn't  it!"  smiled  Judith.  "I  don't 
believe  you  can  live  with  other  people  and  not 
absorb  something  from  their  ways  of  thinking 
and  manner  of  expressing  themselves.  More 
over,  Aunt  Cynthia  has  a  very  penetrating 
personality." 

"All  strong  natures  have,"  Chandler 
answered.  "  Some  people  are  shaped  wholly 
by  their  environment,  as  plastic  material  con 
forms  to  the  receptacle  in  which  it  is  placed. 
Others  mould  their  environment  to  meet  the 
demands  of  individuality." 


175 

"Can  it  be  done?"  asked  Judith,  thought-      atmoet 
fully. 

"Always — if  one  is  strong  enough.  From 
mysterious  sources  we  draw  to  ourselves  that 
which  we  require  or  expect.  If  a  tree  may  lift 
into  its  trunk  the  materials  for  sap  and  fibre, 
and  if  the  moon  may  control  the  tides,  why 
should  not  thought,  which  is  the  most  wonder 
ful  and  powerful  of  forces,  bring  harmony  into 
one's  daily  life,  if  not  the  absolute  control  of 
circumstances  ?" 

Margery,  frankly  bored,  tapped  the  veranda 
restlessly  with  a  tiny  foot,  and  Judith  laughed. 

"  You  're  getting  into  deep  waters,"  she  said, 
with  ready  tact,  "where  Margery  and  I  can't 
follow  you." 

"Then  tell  me  about  yourself.  What  have 
you  been  doing?" 

"  Everything.  I  go  to  town  every  day  now, 
like  any  business  man,  to  buy  furniture." 

"  Is  the  house  done,  then?" 

"  Practically.  Carter  says  it  's  the  only 
house  he  ever  heard  of  that  would  be  ready 
before  it  was  expected  to  be." 

"Then—  Chandler  hesitated  a  little — 
"that  will  hurry  things,  won't  it?"  He  was 
fond  of  Carter,  but  for  some  reason  he  could 
not  have  put  into  words  if  he  tried  to  do  it,  he 
rather  dreaded  to  have  Judith  marry.  Things 
might  never  be  the  same  again — it 's  the  way 
of  things  not  to  be. 


1 76 


"CQeaver  of  Dreams 


fn 

Spanish 
Castles 


Judith  had  turned  her  face  away.  Her  eyes, 
lifted  toward  the  distant  hills,  had  something  of 
the  rapt  fervour  of  the  mystic  in  their  starry 
depths.  The  common  things  of  every  day  had 
faded  from  her  sight.  Alone,  with  her  own 
soul,  she  dwelt  apart. 

Margery  looked  at  her  in  amazement,  slightly 
tinged  with  awe,  but  Chandler  understood.  A 
woman  and  her  dreams !  With  secret  reverence 
he  waited,  until  she  came  to  herself  with  a 
start. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  with  a  rush 
of  colour  staining  her  face.  "  I  was  wander 
ing  around  in  my  Spanish  Castles." 

"Is  the  house  furnished?"  asked  Margery. 

"Almost.  The  inevitable  piece  of  furniture 
is  n't  as  yet  upon  the  inevitable  spot,  but  we 
can  learn  where  things  belong  only  by  experi 
ence.  You  can  build  a  house  but  a  home  must 
grow." 

"Miss  Bancroft  again,"  said  Chandler. 

Judith  nodded.  "  I  'm  getting  the  epigram 
habit.  Later  on  I  shall  progress  to  cryptic 
monosyllables  and  puzzling  metaphors.  Aunt 
Cynthia's  conversation  is  n't  merely  talk. 
Most  of  the  time  she  means  something  entirely 
the  reverse  of  what  she  appears  to  be  saying." 

"Most  women  do,  don't  they?" 

"  I  don't  know."  Judith  fell  to  dreaming 
again,  but  recalled  herself  almost  instantly. 
"  I  'm  absent-minded  to-day,"  she  said,  in 


/IDa&ness  177 


smiling  apology.     "  I  'm   thinking  about   the 

littlz 

house  all  the  time."  Douse 

"  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me  about  it,"  said  Chan 
dler,  earnestly.  "  Remember  I  've  never  seen 
it  and  never  shall." 

"Haven't  I  been  telling  you,  all  along?" 
"Yes,  but  I  've  got  confused.     My  mind  is 
a   mass  of  unrelated  details.     Begin   at   the 
beginning,  won't  you?" 

"  1 1  begins  on  a  terrace,  overlooking  the 
valley  and  the  river.  Outside,  it 's  just  a  ce 
ment  bungalow,  with  a  green-tiled  roof,  and  a 
veranda  opening  off  the  living-room.  Latticed 
windows,  you  know — that  is,  the  upper  sash. 

"Inside,  there's  a  big  living-room  with  a 
stone  fireplace  and  an  inglenook.  Dull  grey- 
green  grass  cloth  on  the  walls,  white  net 
curtains,  lots  of  built-in  bookcases,  and  a  big 
table  with  a  reading  lamp  on  it.  Carter's  den 
is  n't  touched,  as  yet.  He  says  he  wants  to 
put  his  'junk'  into  it  a  little  at  a  time." 

Judith  went  on,  patiently,  as  she  had  done 
many  times  for  Aunt  Cynthia,  from  room  to 
room.  The  "house  love"  which  belongs  to 
some  rare  women  illumined  her  face  and  put 
music  into  her  voice.  One  could  see  that  all 
of  it  was  dear  to  her,  quite  apart  from  Carter, 
and  yet,  in  a  way,  because  of  him,  for  had  they 
not  builded  it  together,  with  a  dream  at  the 
beginning,  as  there  is  at  the  beginning  of  every 
thing  worth  while? 


78 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Sorrowing 
Urouble 


"Thank  you,"  Chandler  said,  when  she  had 
ceased.  "  I  see  it  all  quite  plainly,  now." 

"We'll  have  it  photographed  for  you,  as 
soon  as  it 's  in  order.  Did  I  tell  you  that 
Aunt  Cynthia  might  possibly  come  to  live 
with  us?" 

"No,"  Chandler  answered  in  a  different 
tone.  His  little  world  seemed  to  be  rearrang 
ing  itself  and  proceeding  in  new  ways,  inde 
pendently  of  him. 

"  I  'm  afraid  she  won't,"  Judith  sighed,  "but 
Carter  says  she  must.  He  threatens  to  kidnap 
her  by  automobile.  Modern,  isn't  it?" 

"Lochinvar  up-to-date.  Suppose  the  car 
should  break  down?" 

"Oh,  but  it  won't!" 

"Is  n't  it  a  habit  of  automobiles?" 

"Sometimes  one  is  tempted  to  think  so. 
We  had  a  long  walk  back  home  last  night. 
The  car  is  far  out  on  the  East  road  at  this 
blessed  minute,  waiting  for  somebody  to  tow 
it  back  where  it  can  be  repaired." 

"Suppose  Miss  Bancroft  had  been  in  it?" 
queried  Chandler. 

"  Don't  borrow  trouble,  please.  Aunt 
Cynthia  says  that  when  you  borrow  trouble 
you  give  your  peace  of  mind  as  security. 
We  're  late  about  getting  to  our  work,  are  n't 
we?" 

Judith  went  to  the  piano  and  ran  her  fingers 
idly  over  the  keys.  She  took  down  the  Lo~ 


flMDsummer  /iDatmess 


179 


hengrin  music,  first,  then  remembered  that 
it  had  stirred  up  unhappy  memories  for  Chan 
dler,  and  immediately  put  it  aside. 

Margery  sat  and  listened  for  a  time,  then 
went  out  into  the  yard.  She  was  restless  and 
unhappy  and  the  strains  of  dance  music  that 
came  from  the  house  only  accentuated  the 
blackness  of  her  mood.  She  took  the  em 
broidered  cushion-cover  into  the  kitchen,  and 
asked  Eliza  to  press  it.  Then,  seized  with  a 
swift  distaste  for  the  whole  thing,  she  hurried 
to  the  machine,  sewed  the  two  parts  together, 
and  stuffed  the  pillow  in. 

By  the  time  she  had  finished  it,  she  was 
glad  it  was  done,  and,  for  the  moment,  aban 
doned  the  idea  of  taking  it  to  the  house.  She 
could  give  it  to  Judith  as  she  was  leaving — but, 
no — that  would  n't  be  nice,  to  burden  Judith 
with  her  own  gift.  Sometime,  perhaps,  when 
they  came  up  to  take  her  out  in  the  car — but 
when  had  they  come  to  take  her  out  ?  When 
would  they  come?  Resentfully,  Margery  went 
to  her  dresser  and  shook  out  the  shimmering 
lengths  of  rose  and  turquoise  that  had  lain 
there  so  long,  dazzling  no  eyes  but  her  own. 
Perhaps,  if  she  showed  the  veils  to  Judith,  it 
might  give  her  a  pleasant  idea. 

Margery  sat  down  in  her  low  chair  and  kicked 
her  small  heels  together  nervously.  Why 
were  people  in  love  always  so  abominably 
selfish?  When  she  gave  Judith  the  cushion 


SMscons 

tenteb 

flDargerg 


i8o 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


she  might  show  her  the  veils — no,  that  would 

plana         ,         ,  ,  , 

be  altogether  too  pointed. 

Mr.  Keith  had  been  so  nice,  that  day  they 
met  in  town!  And  the  day  he  came  to  bring 
back  the  stockings,  he  had  been  so  entirely 
different — so  moody  and  sullen,  and  in  such  a 
hurry  to  get  away!  Judith  had  asked  her  to 
dinner  only  once,  she  had  been  in  the  car  but 
twice,  and  nothing  could  be  more  lonely  than 
to  stay  cooped  up  all  the  time  in  a  little  house 
with  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father — and 
a  lame  man  at  that. 

Tears  of  conscious  self-pity  came  into  the 
blue  eyes.  Downstairs  they  were  playing  and 
would  keep  at  it  for  an  hour  longer,  if  not  two 
hours.  She  could  go  away,  almost  anywhere, 
and  come  back  long  before  they  missed  her. 
A  dormant  sense  of  justice  bade  her  ask  her 
self  why  Judith  should  do  for  her  more  than 
she  had,  or  why  Mr.  Keith  should  be  expect 
ed  to  take  a  lonely  little  orphan  out  in  his 
car. 

Nevertheless,  the  music  from  below  grated 
upon  her  abominably.  The  finished  cushion 
confronted  her  with  a  sort  of  impertinent  stare. 
She  wanted  to  get  rid  of  it  immediately,  but 
how?  Then  a  bright  idea  came  to  Margery. 
Why  not  take  it  over  to  the  house,  now,  and 
leave  it?  She  would  be  back  before  they 
finished  playing  and  they  would  never  know 
she  had  been  away.  The  surprise  would  be 


/BMfcsummer  flDatmess 


complete,  if  either  of  them  went  to  the  house 
that  night. 

Smiling,  and  with  an  agreeable  sense  of 
adventure,  Margery  slipped  out  of  the  house 
and  away  from  the  tormenting  t'mes.  She 
wore  no  hat,  and  was  glad  she  had  not  burdened 
herself  with  it,  for  the  sofa-cushion,  unwrapped 
as  it  was,  made  a  very  awkward  armful  long 
before  she  reached  her  destination.  Indeed, 
at  the  river,  she  seriously  thought  of  turning 
back,  then  reflecting  that  she  was  already 
nearly  half-way  there,  she  sat  down  to  rest  a 
little  before  she  went  on. 

Nobody  in  the  house  had  seen  her  go,  and 
Chandler  and  Judith  were  wholly  absorbed 
in  their  music.  When  a  lilting,  laughing  mel 
ody  came  to  an  abrupt  ending  in  a  full  chord 
of  sadness,  and  then  by  a  swift  modula 
tion  changed  into  a  minor  key,  Chandler 
stopped. 

Judith  turned,  wondering  what  was  wrong. 
The  man's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  in  almost 
passionate  pleading  and  a  strange  expression 
had  come  upon  his  face. 

"Judith,"  he  said  huskily,  "oh,  my  dear 
girl,  take  your  joy!  Don't  wait — I  beg  of 
you  not  to  wait!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  in  as 
tonishment. 

"Don't  wait!  The  minute  the  house  is 
done,  go — go  with  him!  Don't  wait!" 


1 82 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


3u6itb's 
Bream 


"Why?"  she  asked,  with  a  queer  little  pang 
at  her  heart. 

"  Because  things  happen — so  many  thousand 
things  might  happen!  When  the  cup  of  joy 
is  once  at  your  lips,  drain  it  to  the  dregs! 
We  are  sure  only  of  the  things  we  have  had!" 

She  ran  her  hands  over  the  keys  again  care 
lessly,  but  the  lovely  face  was  slightly  pale. 
"  I  like  to  go  to  it,"  she  murmured,  "at  sunset, 
and  alone,  when  nobody  knows  where  I  am.  I 
like  to  think  of  all  the  love  and  laughter  that 
some  day  will  be  there;  of  all  the  little  house 
hold  gods  waiting,  asleep,  for  the  love  that 
shall  bring  them  to  busy  life.  And  the  voices 
— oh!  the  little  voices  that  I  pray  may  come!" 

Her  own  voice  had  died  into  a  whisper,  but 
the  light  in  her  eyes  came  from  the  very  altar- 
fires  of  her  womanhood.  Then,  swiftly,  the 
divine  moment  passed. 

"Little  sunset  House  of  Hearts, 

Standing  all  alone — 
1  could  come  and  sweep  the  leaves 
From  your  stepping  stone. 

"  I  like  to  go  there,"  she  went  on,  in  another 
tone,  "and  say  it  to  myself.  You  understand, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  muttered  Chandler.  "No  one  can 
understand  better  than  I.  But  oh,  my  dear 
girl,  don't  wait!" 

The  words  chimed  with  her  steps  as  she 


flDi&summer 


183 


walked  away,  turning  instinctively  toward  the 
little  house,  lonely  upon  its  hillside,  waiting, 
Judith  fancied,  for  her  coming.  "Don't  wait 
— don't  wait — dear  girl — don't  wait."  Every 
cricket  chirped  it  at  her  as  she  passed,  and  even 
the  birds  leaned  out  from  their  leafy  doors 
to  sing  at  her:  "Don't  wait — don't  wait — dear 
girl — don't  wait." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Margery  that  a  fin 
ished  house,  almost  entirely  furnished,  might 
be  locked,  but  she  did  not  want  to  carry  the 
sofa-cushion  back  again,  and  she  disliked  the 
idea  of  leaving  it  upon  the  veranda.  If  it 
should  be  stolen,  all  her  work  would  be  useless, 
and  never  would  she  make  another.  Un 
accustomed  to  sewing,  her  fingers  were  rough 
and  pricked,  and  there  was  a  long  needle- 
scratch  across  the  back  of  her  left  hand. 

She  went  down  into  the  basement,  found  a 
step-ladder  left  by  one  of  the  painters,  and 
dragged  it,  with  some  effort,  up  to  the  kitchen 
window,  which  was  not  fastened.  Inspired  by 
the  emotions  that  conceivably  may  sustain  a 
burglar  in  his  nocturnal  enterprises,  she  went 
back  to  the  veranda,  got  the  cushion,  and  after 
two  failures,  succeeded  in  throwing  it  through 
the  open  window. 

"Now  to  climb  in,"  thought  Margery,  glee 
fully,  "put  it  where  it  belongs,  and  come  out 
again.  How  surprised  they'll  be!" 


Ubrougb 
the  Open 
Window 


1 84 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


fface  to 

face  with 

Cartet 


Brushing  off  the  dust,  she  took  it  into  the 
living-room,  laid  it  upon  a  window  seat,  and 
turned  to  go.  Then  she  was  assailed  by 
temptation.  "  I  don't  believe  it 's  very  nice 
of  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  but  I  do  want  to 
look  at  the  rest  of  the  house.  Just  one  peep!" 

She  went  through  the  bedrooms,  pausing  to 
admire  the  curtains  and  furniture,  took  an 
appreciative  look  at  the  dining-room,  a  rapid 
survey  of  the  kitchen,  and  lingered  for  a  few 
moments  in  the  suite  which  she  supposed 
would  be  assigned  to  Miss  Bancroft  should  she 
go  to  live  with  them.  It  was  a  dear  house — 
just  such  a  house  as  Margery  had  always 
wanted  herself. 

When  she  went  back  into  the  living-room, 
she  came  face  to  face  with  Carter,  who  had  just 
unlocked  the  front  door.  He  stared  at  her, 
for  a  moment,  in  profound  astonishment. 

"Where's  Judith?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"Up  at  Mr.  Chandler's — playing." 

"How  did  you  come  here?" 

Margery  pouted  for  a  moment,  then  an 
swered  coolly:  "  I  climbed  in  through  the  back 
window." 

"Why  did  n't  you  get  the  key  of  the  kitchen 
door  from  Judith?" 

"She  did  n't  know  I  was  coming.  It  was  a 
surprise." 

Carter  was  looking  at  her  with  an  odd 
expression  upon  his  face.  "  I  'm  very  sorry," 


flM&summer 


185 


Margery  stammered.  "  I  suppose  you  think  it 
is  n't  nice  of  me.  Perhaps  it  is  n't,  but  I 
assure  you  I  have  n't  meant  any  harm.  I  only 
came  to  bring  you  that —  '  pointing  to  the 
cushion.  "  I  made  it  myself,  and  I  wanted  to 
bring  it,  and  not  tell  anybody  until  you  'd  both 
wondered  where  it  came  from." 

The  blue  eyes  were  misty  and  almost  child 
like  in  their  appeal.  Carter  took  up  the 
cushion  and  looked  at  it  approvingly.  "  I 
say,"  be  began,  awkwardly.  "  Did  you  really 
make  it  yourself?" 

"  Every  bit.  And  I  pricked  my  fingers,  too. 
See?" 

Devoid  of  any  impulse  of  coquetry,  Margery 
extended  her  hands  as  she  might  have  done  to 
her  father — or  to  Chandler,  or  even  to  Judith 
herself.  But  Carter  did  not  see  the  rough 
finger  tips  and  the  long  scratch.  His  eyes 
were  upon  hers,  and  Margery  translated  the 
strange  look  into  stern  disapproval. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  she  said,  again.  Her  eyes 
brimmed  now,  and  her  sweet  lips  trembled. 
"  Please  forgive  me,  and  I  '11  go."  She 
turned — but  the  man  suddenly  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  "Margery!"  he  breathed. 

For  a  frightened  instant  she  struggled,  then 
yielded.  Her  lips  met  his  in  the  first  kiss  she 
had  ever  given  to  any  man  save  her  father. 
"Margery!"  he  whispered.  "Margery,  dear!" 

For  a  delirious  minute  he  crushed  her  to 


Carter's 

Downfall 


1 86 


H  Weaver  ot  3>reams 


him,  knowing  only  that  he  held  in  his  arms  the 
one  woman  God  had  meant  for  him  since  the 
world  was  made,  that  no  other  woman  could 
ever  stir  the  unsounded  depths  of  his  soul.  He 
had  the  sense  of  divine  completion  that  comes 
to  a  man  but  once  in  his  life,  and  which  is 
never  to  be  mistaken  or  denied.  Over  and 
above  the  riot  of  his  senses,  he  knew  that  this 
was  inevitable;  that  from  the  day  he  was 
born,  every  step  had  led  him  straight  to  Mar 
gery  and  that  he  had  her  at  last. 

The  back  door  opened,  but  no  one  heard. 
Judith  came  into  the  dining-room,  singing 
softly  to  herself.  It  might  have  been  a 
lullaby  stirring  from  her  prayer  for  little  voices, 
and  the  fairy  patter  of  little  feet. 

She  opened  the  door  into  the  living-room — 
and  still,  no  one  heard.  White  and  horror- 
stricken,  she  stood  there  for  a  blinding  instant, 
then  her  nerveless  hand  dropped  to  her  side. 
The  door  closed  of  its  own  accord. 

Like  a  wounded  animal  seeking  shelter 
Judith  turned  toward  the  white  room — her 
own  room.  "No,"  she  said  to  herself,  in  a 
shrill  whisper — "not  there!"  She  dragged 
herself  to  her  own  closet,  locked  the  door  on 
the  inside,  and  sank  to  the  floor,  all  her  senses 
merged  into  one  unspeakable  hurt. 

"Oh,"  said  Margery,  with  a  sob,  breaking 
away  from  Carter.  "How  can  you!" 


187 

"How  can  I  not?"  he  answered.  His  face 
was  as  pale  as  Judith's  had  been,  when  she 
stood  there  in  the  door — unseen. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then,  with 
faltering  steps,  went  to  the  door.  He  followed 
her  out  of  the  house,  and  down  the  road.  She 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but 
held  her  head  proudly,  though  the  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  face.  A  torrent  of  broken 
words  came  from  Carter's  lips,  but  Margery 
did  not  answer.  Finally,  he  said,  with  the 
dogged  stubbornness  which  was  characteristic 
of  him,  "  You  need  n't  speak  to  me  if  you  don't 
want  to,  but  I  shall  at  least  see  you  safely 
home." 

Margery  ran,  then,  so  fast  that  he  could  not 
keep  up  with  her.  He  stopped  at  the  river 
and  watched  until  the  flying  little  figure  in  blue 
turned  at  the  cross-roads,  never  once  looking 
back. 

Shaken  to  the  depths  by  a  whirlwind  of 
emotion,  he  wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from 
his  face.  "God!"  he  said  to  himself.  "What 
shall  I  do  ? "  Bitterly  he  added :  "  What  can  I 
do?" 

He  lingered  upon  the  river  bank  until  after 
dark.  Nor  did  he  see,  in  the  gathering  dusk, 
the  pitiful  figure  in  scarlet  that  crept  past  him 
in  the  kindly  shadows,  too  deeply  submerged 
in  its  own  misery  even  to  guess  that  he  was 
there. 


i88 


Carter 

Qocs 
Ubrougb 

tbc 
Aotfons 


XIII 

IRigbt  Map 

WHEN  Carter  finally  pulled  himself  to 
gether,  it  was  almost  eight  o'clock. 
Without  stopping  to  think  of  dinner,  he  went 
slowly  to  Miss  Bancroft's,  hoping,  yet  dread 
ing,  to  see  Judith.  Her  beautiful  serenity  had 
always  calmed  him.  When  with  her  he 
seemed  to  dwell  in  a  higher  atmosphere,  beyond 
the  power  of  mundane  things  to  disturb  or  to 
annoy. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  send  an  excuse, 
and  indeed,  what  excuse  could  he  send?  He 
could  not  say  he  was  ill,  or  busy,  for  he  had 
never  been  ill  a  day  in  his  life,  and  he  never 
worked  evenings — at  least  he  had  not  since  he 
fell  in  love  with  Judith. 

The  house  was  ominously  silent.  No  friendly 
light  beckoned  from  a  window;  no  woman  in  a 
white  gown  waited  in  the  shadow  at  the  gate 
to  put  soft  bare  arms  around  his  neck  and 
murmur  in  a  low  voice  that  thrilled  him  to  the 
depths  of  his  soul:  "  Dear — my  dear!" 

Even  Miss  Cynthia  was  invisible.  The 
maid  said  that  Miss  Judith  had  a  headache 


Map  189 


and  had  gone  to  bed.     No,  she  had  not  been       cbaottc 

,  ,.  Emotions 

down  to  dinner. 

Insensibly  relieved,  Carter  turned  away. 
He  walked  farther  up  the  road,  then  came  back. 
There  was  no  light  in  Judith's  room — nor  in 
Miss  Cynthia's.  Except  for  the  kitchen,  the 
house  was  dark. 

Memory  stung  him  as  with  scorpions. 
"  Cad !"  he  said  to  himself,  angrily.  "  Coward, 
weakling,  blind  fool!"  Chaotic  emotions 
surged  through  him,  yet,  even  then,  he  knew 
that  his  ultimate  reckoning  must  come,  not 
with  Judith  or  Margery,  but  with  himself. 

It  was  the  first  time,  since  he  had  grown  to 
manhood,  that  Carter  had  lost  his  self-control. 
Proudly  he  had  kept  the  command  of  himself, 
with  secret  contempt  for  the  weakness  of  those 
who  could  not.  He  shrank,  frightened,  from 
the  thought  that  anything  outside  himself 
could  direct  even  his  smallest  action. 

Anxiously,  he  considered  Judith.  In  the 
year  and  more  of  their  engagement,  he  had 
never  known  her  to  have  a  headache,  nor  to 
deny  herself  to  him  upon  any  pretext  whatever. 
Above  coquetry  and  the  use  of  small  feminine 
weapons,  she  met  him  openly  and  frankly 
as  a  man  might.  Always  they  stood  upon 
equal  terms,  yet,  because  she  was  all  woman, 
even  in  her  frankness,  she  commanded  his 
loyalty.  • 

A  flood  of  it  surged  upon  him  now,  drowning, 


190  H  Meaner  ot  H>reams    ., 

H  VMS  for  the  moment,  every  tormenting  thought. 
He  went  back  to  the  day  they  met — when  he 
came  out  to  Edgerton  to  find  a  place  where  he 
might  live  reasonably  and  quietly,  while,  in 
yonder  roaring  city,  he  made  daily  offerings 
upon  the  altar  of  the  god  Success. 

Someone  had  told  him  to  go  to  Mrs.  Warner's 
—but  he  could  not  remember  who.  Judith 
had  been  there,  talking  to  the  old  people. 
Uncle  Henry  had  hurt  his  foot,  and  the  injured 
member  had  been  wrapped  in  flannel  and 
propped  up  on  a  chair.  Judith  had  taken  him 
a  book  and  a  picture  puzzle,  and  was  teaching 
him  to  play  solitaire  while  she  chatted  with 
Aunt  Belinda  upon  congenial  topics. 

Vividly,  as  though  it  were  yesterday,  the 
picture  appeared  before  him — the  exquisite 
cleanliness  and  peace  of  the  whole  place,  from 
the  white  picket  fence  around  the  yard  to 
Aunt  Belinda  herself,  matronly  and  kind, 
enveloped  in  a  spotless  white  apron.  He 
remembered  how  she  had  at  first  mistaken 
him  for  a  book  agent  and  refused  to  admit  him 
until  he  had  spoken  the  talismanic  name  that 
had  wreathed  Aunt  Belinda's  face  in  smiles. 
Who  was  it,  anyway?  Queer  that  he  should 
forget  that  and  remember  everything  else! 

And  Uncle  Henry — wearing  the  martyr-like 
expression  of  the  man  who  is  slightly  ill,  sitting 
in  the  best  rocker  in  the  centre  of  the  parlour, 
with  his  sore  foot  upon  the  softest  chair, — the 


Ube  1Rf0bt 


191 


pivot  upon  which  the  entire  household  revolved. 
Carter  remembered  the  mild  blue  eyes  that 
peered  sharply  at  him  from  over  the  steel 
bowed  spectacles,  the  scanty  white  hair  that 
stuck  out  all  over  his  head  because  he  had 
refused  to  let  Aunt  Belinda  brush  it  or  to  do 
it  himself,  and  the  full  grey  beard,  irregularly 
trimmed,  because  he  had  done  it  himself,  with 
the  aid  of  the  kitchen  scissors  and  the  cracked 
mirror  that  hung  over  the  sink. 

Five  years  ago,  almost — yet  it  seemed  as 
though  it  were  only  the  day  before.  He 
remembered  he  had  gone  upstairs  with  Aunt 
Belinda,  and  how  gratefully  the  lavender- 
scented  stillness  of  the  front  room  had  appealed 
to  his  weary  senses.  Then,  having  come  to 
terms  with  her,  he  went  down — to  find  that 
Judith  was  leaving,  in  spite  of  Uncle  Henry's 
loud-voiced  protests  and  the  shrill  assertion 
that  he  could  n't  play  the  game  yet  by  himself 
and  what  was  he  to  do. 

Smilingly,  Judith  had  suggested  the  picture 
puzzle  and  the  book  and  promised  to  come 
again  to-morrow.  For  the  first  time,  then, 
Carter  noted  the  cool  depths  of  her  voice — 
the  full,  vibrant  contralto  that  sounded 
through  the  rooms  like  the  swept  strings  of  a 
harp.  He  had  asked  if  he  might  not  walk 
home  with  her,  since  it  would  be  an  hour  be 
fore  the  next  train  to  town,  and  she  had 
assented  as  readily — and  as  unemotionally — 


TObe  fffrst 
BbeetinQ 


192 


H  TKHeaver  of  Breams 


XI  JBuncb 
of  Violets 


as  though  she  had  been  a  man,  or  he  a 
woman. 

It  was  Spring  then  and  he  had  never  for 
gotten  the  long  walk  upon  the  good  brown 
earth  and  the  young  grass,  the  scent  of  the 
blossoming  willows  that  overhung  the  river  and 
the  mute  aspiration  upward  even  of  the  clods. 
The  flutter  of  swift  wings  past  him,  the  tran 
quil  clouds  that  were  reflected  upon  the  rippling 
surface  of  the  river,  murmuring  with  full,  low 
music  toward  the  ultimate  sea,  that,  with  its 
siren  call,  lures  every  stream  on  earth  into  its 
arms — the  day  came  back,  pitilessly,  to  con 
front  him  now. 

Though  hitherto  not  given  to  sentiment, 
Carter  had  kept  that  day  the  bunch  of  violets 
Judith  had  taken  from  her  belt  and  offered 
him  as  they  stood  at  the  white  gate  hung  upon 
posts  in  the  midst  of  the  box  hedge  that  sur 
rounded  Miss  Cynthia's  house.  The  pungent 
odour  of  the  box  never  failed  to  bring  before 
him  Judith's  frank,  sweet  eyes,  as  she  said, 
"Just  a  little  breath  of  country  to  last  you 
until  you  get  to  town.  Won't  you  come  in 
and  meet  my  Aunt?" 

"Thank  you,  no,"  he  had  answered,  a  little 
confused.  "  I  have  n't  time  now,  but  I  '11 
come  very  soon,  if  I  may." 

With  the  merest  nod  of  assent,  she  said 
good-bye  and  left  him.  That  had  been  the 
beginning  of  a  long,  happy  comradeship  which 


IRtgbt  Map  193 


at  last  had  ripened  into  love.  He  had  liked  "ttt 
Miss  Cynthia  at  once,  and  keenly  enjoyed  the 
barbed  shafts  she  sped  at  him.  At  first  it  had 
been  merely  pleasant  to  go  there  when  he  was 
lonely:  later  he  found  himself,  in  the  midst 
of  the  afternoon,  looking  forward  to  the 
evening  which  would  bring  him  to  Judith. 
When  he  asked,  once,  if  he  did  not  bore  them 
by  coming  so  often,  Miss  Cynthia  had  assured 
him,  most  heartily,  that  he  could  not,  and 
even  Judith  had  echoed  her  assertion  with  a 
soft,  "No  —  indeed,  no!" 

So  it  had  gone  on.  Gradually  she  became 
his  solace,  then  his  necessity.  He  took  his 
unhappy  moods  to  her,  his  failures,  and  even 
his  temptations.  One  night,  when  two  ways 
lay  before  him  and  on  the  morrow  he  must 
choose  which  one  he  would  take,  Judith  had 
settled  it  for  him  in  one  clear  sentence:  "When 
you  've  once  seen  which  way  is  the  right  way, 
it  ought  never  to  be  hard  to  choose." 

Hundreds  of  times  it  had  come  back  to  him, 
and,  at  crucial  moments  of  his  career,  had 
never  failed  to  appear  before  him.  To-night 
it  confronted  him  with  double  force. 

"The  right  way,"  he  muttered  —  "where  is 
it?  If  I  knew,  I  'd  take  it." 

He  saw  now  as  never  before  how  much  he 
owed  Judith.  Subtly  she  had  seemed  to  de 
mand  the  best  from  him,  and,  loyally,  he  had 
given  it  to  her.  Long  ago  he  had  seen  that 


194 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Ube  IFUgbt 
of  Ubefr 

JBetrotbal 


however  high  he  might  climb,  Judith  would 
still  beckon  to  him  from  heights  of  her  own. 
He  had  known,  also,  that  into  whatever  dark 
ness  he  might  be  plunged,  Judith  would  be 
beside  him — with  a  light. 

A  certain  bitter  comfort  came  from  the 
thought.  To  go  to  Judith  and  tell  her  every 
thing — to  let  her  heal  the  hurt  that  he  himself 
had  done  to  his  manhood — why  not  ? 

He  stopped  to  think,  then  his  question 
answered  itself.  Only  a  cad  would  betray 
one  woman  to  another,  and,  moreover,  why 
should  he  hurt  Judith  for  the  sake  of  his 
own  relief? 

Clear  and  distinct,  the  night  of  their  be 
trothal  urged  itself  into  his  misery,  remotely, 
as  though  it  belonged  to  another  life.  Judith's 
sweet  serenity  had  not  been  disturbed;  she 
seemed,  indeed,  to  have  expected  it,  and 
taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Crimson  with 
embarrassment  which  the  kindly  shadows  of 
the  veranda  concealed,  he  had  stammered  out 
the  few  necessary  words,  and  Judith,  with  a 
laugh  that  was  more  like  music  than  anything 
else,  had  yielded  herself  to  his  open  arms  with 
out  a  word.  The  first  kiss,  passionless,  as  the 
first  kiss  usually  is,  then  the  next  when  he 
crushed  her  to  him  hungrily,  and  Judith,  awake 
at  last,  had  answered  him  from  the  depths  of 
her  inmost  soul,  as  Margery — 

Carter  shrank  from  himself.     "Beast  that 


Ube  TRfgbt 


195 


I  am — to  be  comparing  the  way  in  which  two 
women  have  kissed  me!  Have  I  fallen  so  low 
as  that  ?" 

He  had  paced  back  and  forth  along  the 
river  bank  for  more  than  an  hour,  thinking. 
Through  force  of  habit  he  went  back  to  Miss 
Cynthia's  and  walked  up  and  down  under  the 
long  row  of  maples  across  the  street  from  the 
house.  There  was  still  no  light,  but  a  tall 
figure  in  white  was  upon  the  veranda  that 
opened  out  from  the  sitting-room,  at  the  side  of 
the  house  overlooking  the  garden.  It  was  not 
Miss  Cynthia,  for,  as  he  looked,  it  rose  from  its 
chair,  and  dragged  itself  the  length  of  the 
veranda  without  the  assistance  of  a  crutch. 
The  whole  aspect  of  it  was  so  utterly  changed, 
however,  that  he  would  scarcely  have  known  it 
was  Judith,  had  it  not  been  for  the  heavy  veil 
of  hair,  that,  deep  as  midnight,  hung  far  be 
low  her  waist. 

"  Poor  girl,"  he  said  to  himself.  "What  can 
be  wrong  ?"  Then,  upon  the  instant,  a  ques 
tion  staggered  him :  "  Did  she  know  ?  Could 
she  have  seen  ?" 

His  stiff  lips  smiled  a  little  at  the  thought, 
for  Margery  had  said  that  she  was  up  at 
Chandler's  playing,  so  how  could  she  have 
been  in  the  house  ?  Upon  the  face  of  it,  the 
thing  was  absurd,  and  yet — his  sixth  sense 
made  him  wonder,  in  spite  of  his  reason. 

As  he  stood  there,  the  white  figure  upon  the 


B 

Staggering 
Question 


196 


H  Weaver  of  2>reami 


TObe  Hew 
Emotion 


upper  balcony  turned  and  crept  into  the  house 
— bent  and  broken,  as  though  it  had  all  at 
once  grown  old.  Presently,  from  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  a  light  streamed  out  into 
the  scented  darkness  for  a  moment,  then 
disappeared. 

With  a  sigh  he  turned  away — sorry  for 
Judith,  who  was  evidently  so  ill,  or  unhappy, 
or  both,  and  bitterly  ashamed  of  himself. 
Yet  above  it  all,  dominant,  compelling,  rose 
man's  supreme  passion — that  for  his  mate. 
With  the  touch  of  Margery's  lips  his  world  had 
changed,  and  would  never  be  the  same  again. 
His  feeling  for  Judith  was  unchanged;  rather, 
with  the  new  emotion,  it  had  been  accentuated 
if  that  were  possible,  but  the  blinding  sun 
had  risen  upon  one  who  had  known  only 
starlight  before. 

For  a  wild  moment  he  considered  going  to 
Judith  and  asking  for  release,  then  craftily 
wondered  whether  it  would  not  be  wise  to 
make  sure  of  Margery  first,  then  was  shaken 
from  head  to  foot  by  the  realisation  of  his  soul's 
debasement. 

Instinctively  relieving  his  mind  by  wearying 
his  body,  he  walked  on  and  on,  down  the  road 
he  had  taken  that  afternoon,  when  Margery 
had  run  ahead  of  him,  so  fast  that  he  could  not 
keep  up  with  her,  and  had  been  obliged,  in  a 
few  moments,  to  give  up  an  undignified  and 
hopeless  pursuit. 


TTbe 


197 


Her  face  was  wet  with  tears  when  he  saw  it 
last,  and  her  blue  eyes  blind  with  mist.  Her 
mouth  worked  piteously  in  the  last  instant — 
before  she  broke  away  from  him  and  started 
home.  The  memory  of  her  choking  sobs  filled 
his  heart  with  remorseful  tenderness.  What 
of  Margery  ?  What  was  she  thinking  now  ? 

When  he  came  to  the  cross-roads,  where 
Chandler's  lantern  hung,  he  stopped  to  look  up 
at  the  little  blue  sailor  that  guarded  the 
weather-vane.  The  painted  smile  that  had 
hitherto  seemed  cheery  was  a  hideous  mock 
ery  now.  "At  the  cross-roads,"  said  Carter 
to  himself.  "Which  way,  old  man — which 
way  ?" 

Very  slowly  the  sailor  turned,  in  answer  to 
a  vagrant  breeze,  and  squarely  faced  Mar 
gery's  window,  where  every  light  still  burned 
brightly,  though  the  rest  of  the  house  was 
dark. 

"  You  've  turned  your  back  to  the  right 
way,"  Carter  thought,  "but  I  mustn't — I 
can't!" 

Dimly,  through  the  maze  of  things,  he  had 
begun  to  see  what  he  must  do.  Judith's 
words  came  back  to  him,  imperiously:  "When 
you  've  once  seen  which  way  is  the  right  way, 
it  ought  never  to  be  hard  to  choose." 

In  spite  of  the  blue  sailor,  Carter  had  seen 
the  right  way,  in  a  flash  of  insight  that  had 
made  him  marvel  why  he  had  not  seen  it  be- 


TRRbfcb 
TKlag? 


198 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


ICUeps 


fore.  White-faced  and  weary,  for  it  was  past 
midnight  now,  he  turned  back,  pausing  at  the 
river  to  strain  his  eyes  toward  the  cross-roads, 
where  the  lantern  twinkled  like  some  great 
star  and  above  it,  deeper  in  the  darkness, 
Margery's  light  still  shone. 

None  of  the  three  had  eaten  dinner,  nor 
would  any  of  the  three  sleep.  When  Margery 
ran  into  the  house,  sobbing,  Chandler  had 
called  to  her  gently:  "Margery!  Margery 
dear!" 

Carter's  own  words,  in  another  voice  and  in 
another  place  and  with  a  wholly  different 
meaning!  In  a  tumult  of  pain  she  had  stopped 
only  to  ask:  "  Has  she  gone  ?" 

"Yes,  long  ago." 

With  a  fresh  rush  of  tears  she  had  gone  up 
stairs  and  locked  her  door,  leaving  Chandler 
in  grieved  amazement.  "What  could  possibly 
have  happened  ?"  he  asked  himself  again 
and  again — "What  could  possibly  have  hap 
pened  ?" 

Having  dried  her  tears  and  calmed  herself  in 
the  sweet  solitude  of  the  room  Judith  had  taken 
such  pains  to  furnish  for  her,  Margery  sat 
down  to  think.  First  love,  dawning  with  the 
first  kiss,  stabbed  into  her  heart  with  poignant 
pain.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Carter  had 
been  cruel,  or  unkind,  or  even  disloyal  to 
Judith — something  that  had  to  be  had  hap 
pened,  that  was  all.  It  was  written  in  the 


Ube  IRigbt 


199 


stars  that  she  should  meet  him  as  she  had  done, 
by  the  contriving  of  neither,  that  he  should 
want  to  kiss  her,  and  should  do  it. 

Presently  he  would  marry  Judith,  and  every 
thing  would  be  as  it  had  been  before,  save  in 
her  own  heart.  She  told  herself  repeatedly 
that  Carter  would  forget — that  men  always 
forgot.  Had  not  Father  told  her,  since  the 
day  she  put  on  long  skirts,  that  a  man  meant 
nothing  until  he  said:  "I  love  you — will  you 
marry  me  ?"  Had  he  not  sternly  bade 
Margery  remember  it  ?  Had  he  not  told  her 
that  no  nice  girl  allowed  herself  to  be  kissed 
by  any  man  who  had  not  said  that  ?  And 
once,  when  Margery  had  asked,  half-shyly, 
"But  suppose  a  girl  is  taken  by  surprise?" 
Father  had  bitten  his  lips,  trying  to  conceal  a 
smile,  before  he  said,  more  gently:  "A  girl 
is  never  so  much  surprised,  my  dear,  that  there 
is  not  time  to  say  'no'  in  a  way  that  leaves  no 
doubt  as  to  whether  she  means  it." 

It  came  to  her  with  a  sort  of  shock  that 
Father  could  ever  be  wrong  about  anything. 
Unmistakably,  she  had  been  surprised;  she  had 
never  even  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  until 

Then  Margery  fell  to  dreaming  of  Judith  and 
of  the  dear  little  house.  How  happy  she  must 
be  to  have  it — and  Mr.  Keith.  In  Margery's 
thoughts  he  had  always  been  "Mr.  Keith." 
She  could  not  imagine  herself  using  his  first 
name  with  careless  freedom,  yet  Judith  always 


2OO 


flDargerie's 

Ubougbt 
of  3ubitb 


spoke  of  him  quite  casually  as  "Carter,"  just 
as  he  said  "Judith,"  and  "Margery." 

She  had  not  noticed  that  he  had  never  called 
her  "Miss  Gordon"  since  the  first  time  he 
spoke  to  her.  She  was  "Margery"  to  every 
body — perhaps  because  she  was  so  young. 
It  came  to  her  now,  with  an  odd  little  stir  in  her 
heart,  that  if  he  said  "  Margery,"  perhaps  she 
might  say  "Carter." 

"Carter,"  she  said  aloud,  to  see  how  it 
would  sound.  "Carter  Keith."  Judith's 
name  would  be  "Mrs.  Carter  Keith,"  after 
they  were  married.  At  once  Judith  was  set 
apart  from  all  other  women  in  the  world,  be 
cause  she  was  to  be  "Mrs.  Carter  Keith." 

Not  in  the  least  realising  what  had  hap 
pened  to  her,  and  fearing  that  Chandler  would 
be  lonely,  she  went  downstairs,  though  she 
did  not  care  for  dinner,  and  said  so.  Chandler 
asked  if  she  were  tired  and  she  said,  absently, 
that  she  was.  When  he  spoke,  she  answered 
him  in  monosyllables.  While  he  finished  his 
dinner,  she  stood  there,  hesitating. 

"Margery  dear,"  said  Chandler,  kindly, 
"what  is  it?  Is  it  anything  you  can  tell  me?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  her 
eyes  filled  and  she  turned  her  face  away. 
"No,"  she  replied,  with  trembling  lips.  "I — 
I  want  my  mother,  that's  all!"  She  choked 
on  the  words,  fled  upstairs  again,  and  locked 
her  door. 


Ube 


201 


The  darkness  frightened  her  rather  than 
soothed  her.  She  lighted  her  lamp  and  every 
candle  in  the  room,  then  curled  up  .on  her 
couch,  staring  at  the  lights. 

She  longed  for  her  mother  as  she  said,  but 
presently  she  became  aware  that  she  longed 
more  intensely  for  Carter.  Only  to  be  in  his 
arms  again — for  just  an  instant;  to  be  kissed 
just  once  more,  and  then  to  say  good-bye,  and 
not  see  him  until  after  he  and  Judith  were 
married.  , 

"Married!"  The  thought  set  every  nerve 
thrilling  to  its  own  torture.  Then,  out  of  the 
maze  of  torment  came  knowledge.  "Oh,"  she 
murmured,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  "I 
love  him — indeed  I  do!"  Then  she  added,  to 
herself,  "I  wonder  if  he  knows!" 

Carter,  tossing  uneasily  from  side  to  side  of 
his  bed,  was  thinking  of  nothing  else,  aside  from 
his  own  emotion  and  the  things  he  had  to  do. 
He  had  been  cruel  to  Margery,  perhaps,  but 
not  unjust — the  thing  had  to  be,  and  it  was; 
there  was  nothing  more  to  it. 

When  the  carrier  pigeon  came  to  his  window, 
he  had  not  been  asleep  at  all.  Common  de 
cency  demanded  that  he  should  send  a  line 
to  Judith,  and  yet,  what  was  there  to  say  ? 
What  could  a  man  say  when  the  girl  he  was 
going  to  marry  had  a  headache  ? 

Finally  he  wrote,  "  I  'm  so  sorry  you  were 
ill,  dear.  Are  you  better  now  ? — C.  K." 


Ubings 
as  Carter 
SeesUbem 


2O2 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


a  -note 

and  ptnfe 
•Roses 


He  waited  at  the  window  until  the  bird  came 
back,  with  the  brief  answer.  "  Yes,  thank 
you.  That  is,  I  think  so. — J.  S." 

Somewhat  refreshed  by  his  cold  bath,  he  sat 
down,  after  he  had  dressed,  to  write  a  note  to 
Margery.  It  was  late,  but  he  could  not  write 
in  his  office,  and  did  not  care  whether  he  missed 
the  train  or  not.  At  length,  after  many  at 
tempts,  he  achieved  this: 

"Mr  DEAR  Miss  GORDON: 

"  I  trust  you  will  forgive  me  for  my  un 
pardonable  offence  of  yesterday.  I  have  no 
excuse  to  offer;  indeed,  I  know  there  is  none. 
I  most  humbly  beg  your  pardon.  I  suppose 
you  do  not  want  to  see  me  again,  but  it  is  in 
evitable,  under  the  circumstances,  that  we 
should  meet  occasionally.  For  Judith's  sake, 
if  not  for  mine,  will  you  try  to  forgive  and 
forget  ? 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"CARTER  KEITH." 

It  sounded  brusque  and  even  unfriendly,  as 
he  read  it  over.  He  could  n't  post  it,  on  his 
way  to  the  train,  as  he  had  first  intended; 
there  must  be  some  more  graceful  way  of 
offering  an  apology.  A  florist's  window,  in 
town,  presented  him  with  an  idea.  He  sent 
it  out  to  her  that  afternoon,  enclosed  in  a  box 
of  pink  roses. 


2O- 


XIV 

Qne  Woman 


AFTER  the  pigeon  had  gone  back  to  Carter 
with  her  answer  to  his  note,  Judith  fell 
into  an  uneasy  sleep,  waking  at  intervals  from 
dreams  that  mocked  her,  to  a  shuddering 
reality.  It  was  long  past  noon  when  she  be 
gan  to  dress. 

Miss  Cynthia  was  in  the  garden,  with  a 
book,  making  a  sorry  pretence  at  reading. 
When  Judith  came  home  the  night  before,  in 
the  dusk  that  shielded  her  white  face,  Miss 
Cynthia  had  gracefully  accepted  her  explana 
tion  as  to  a  headache,  which  is  woman's  friend 
as  often  as  it  is  her  enemy.  Tactfully  she 
ascribed  it  to  the  long  walk  in  the  sun,  follow 
ing  upon  late  hours  of  the  night  before,  but 
did  not  fail  to  notice  that  Judith  winced  at  the 
vague  allusion  to  Carter. 

Afterwards,  when  she  was  alone,  Miss 
Cynthia  remembered  that  in  the  ten  years  and 
more  that  she  and  Judith  had  lived  together, 
the  girl  had  never  had  a  headache,  nor,  in 
deed,  more  than  a  single  day's  illness  at  a  time. 


flMss 

Cgntbfa'0 
Cact 


204 


H  TKHeaver  of  Breams 


Secretly 

Disturbed 


Her  feminine  instinct  scented  trouble,  and 
yet — what  could  it  be? 

Surely  she  had  not  quarrelled  with  Carter, 
for  he  had  come  as  usual  the  night  before,  and 
Judith  had  been  happy  all  day — until  she 
came  home  from  Chandler's.  And  that  very 
night  Carter  had  come,  and  was  disappointed, 
the  maid  said,  not  to  see  Miss  Judith.  Thus 
she  had  translated  his  involuntary  sigh  of 
thankfulness. 

Miss  Cynthia  had  been  tempted  to  go  down 
and  talk  to  him  herself,  but  thought  the  sound 
of  their  voices,  however  low,  might  annoy 
Judith,  and  moreover,  Carter  had  not  asked 
for  her.  So  she  sat  alone  all  the  evening,  in 
the  sitting-room  upstairs,  without  a  light, 
musing  upon  the  mysterious  ways  of  people  in 
general  and  of  men  in  particular. 

Secretly  disturbed,  Miss  Cynthia  had  passed 
a  troubled  night  also.  Now  and  then,  upon 
the  maple  tree  just  outside  her  window,  the 
faintest  possible  light  shone — the  merest  sug 
gestion  of  the  candle  that  burned  in  Judith's 
room.  Presently  it  would  disappear  and  Miss 
Cynthia  would  sleep  again,  but  never  for  long. 
Fitfully,  as  the  night  waned,  she  woke  and 
slept,  anxious  for  Judith  and  wondering  what 
could  possibly  be  wrong. 

When  the  carrier  pigeon  fluttered  past  her 
window,  on  his  way  to  Judith's  room,  she  had 
a  vague  premonition  that  the  tide  of  emotion 


Ztbe  ©ne  Moman 


205 


had  turned  and  that  Judith  would  sleep  now. 
As  she  dressed  Miss  Cynthia  scouted  the  idea 
that  Carter  had  anything  to  do  with  Judith's 
unhappiness.  She  had  never  known  him  to 
fail  even  in  the  smallest  way.  He  had  kept 
Judith  surrounded,  constantly,  with  the  evi 
dence  of  his  devotion. 

During  the  morning,  Miss  Cynthia  bade  the 
maid  leave  her  dishes  and  attire  herself  for  the 
street.  Then  she  wrote  a  note  to  Chandler: 

"DEAR  FRIEND: 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  happened  to  Judith 
yesterday?  She  left  here  at  half-past  one, 
happy  and  contented.  She  came  back  at  half- 
past  seven,  white  as  a  sheet,  and  the  merest 
ghost  of  herself.  I  thought  she  had  stayed  to 
dinner  at  your  house.  She  said  she  had  a 
headache — but  she  never  has  headaches  and 
I  am  troubled.  She  is  still  in  bed.  Please 
answer  by  bearer,  and  oblige. 

"CYNTHIA  BANCROFT." 

Under  the  address  she  wrote:  Confidential, 
and  underscored  it  heavily. 

In  an  hour  the  maid  came  back  with  the 
answer: 

"Mr  DEAR  Miss  BANCROFT: 

"Judith  came  at  two  as  usual,  and  was  al 
together  like  herself.  She  went  away  at  five. 


flfifes 

C^ntbia 

Seeks  fln» 

formation 


2O6 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Done  of 
UerBflatr 


Nothing  happened  here,  I  am  sure,  for  she  was 
not  out  of  my  sight.  I  am  very  sorry  that  she 
is  ill  and  shall  be  quite  as  anxious  as  you  are. 
"Margery  went  out  while  Judith  was  here 
and  had  not  returned  when  she  left.  Margery 
came  home  about  six  in  a  tempest  of  tears. 
She  ate  no  dinner  and  her  light  burned  all 
night.  She,  too,  is  still  in  bed.  Something 
must  be  wrong.  If  you  find  out,  will  you  tell 
me  ?  This  also  is  confidential. 
"  Sincerely, 

"MARTIN  CHANDLER." 

"Margery,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  to  herself, 
tearing  the  note  into  bits.  What  could  make 
two  women  weep,  except  a  man  ?  And  what 
man  was  there,  save  Carter? 

For  the  moment  she  struggled  with  the  temp 
tation  to  call  up  Carter's  office  and  have  it  out 
with  him  at  long  distance.  Then  she  reflected 
that,  after  all,  it  was  none  of  her  affair,  and 
that  most  things  would  work  themselves  out 
to  a  happy  conclusion  if  people  in  general  were 
not  so  eager  to  give  assistance  that  was  neither 
asked  for  nor  needed.  So  much  of  the  trouble 
in  the  world  is  not  caused  by  those  who  keep 
their  mouths  shut! 

And  yet — between  five  and  half-past  seven, 
something  had  changed  Judith  from  a  beauti 
ful  and  happy  woman,  who  gave  out  joy  as  a 
flower  gives  fragrance,  into  a  lifeless  counter- 


TTbe  ©ne  Woman 


207 


part  of  herself.  Miss  Cynthia  remembered, 
with  a  shudder,  how  the  scarlet  gown  in  the 
dusk  had  been  the  colour  of  blood.  The  deadly 
white  face  above  it  and  the  wistful,  appealing 
eyes  still  haunted  her. 

The  garden  itself  was  the  abode  of  serenity 
and  peace.  Miss  Cynthia  sighed  as  she  looked 
about  her,  from  the  shrubs  that  were  past 
their  blossoming  time  to  the  mass  of  larkspur 
that  had  budded,  and,  in  a  day,  would  break 
into  starry  bloom. 

The  house,  with  its  double-decked  veranda, 
seemed  to  her  more  like  a  stranded  ocean-liner 
than  ever — the  life  within  having  come  to 
disaster  upon  some  sunken  reef.  Yet  nothing 
was  happening!  Butterflies  floated  back  and 
forth  in  the  warm  still  air,  lazily.  Birds 
twittered  in  the  boughs  over  her  head,  cheer 
fully  busy  at  their  housekeeping  amid  the  green 
leaves,  and  the  hum  and  whirr  of  the  manifold 
life  about  her  went  on  unceasingly,  without 
hint  of  trouble. 

Nevertheless,  she  had  been  plunged  over 
night  into  chaos.  The  undercurrents  might 
be  calm  and  steady,  pursuing  their  destined 
course  through  deep,  smooth  channels  of  sea, 
but  above,  rocked  and  shaken  by  tempestuous 
surges,  one  ship,  at  least,  was  fighting  its  way 
to  the  harbour. 

Miss  Cynthia  determined  to  be  very  kind 
and  to  ask  no  questions.  If  she  could 


plunges 
into  Cbaoa 


208  a  Weaver  of  Dreams 

find   out,    tactfully,  where    the    trouble    lay, 

Aborning  J  J 

mft«       perhaps 

Judith  came  out  of  the  house,  slowly,  drag 
ging  a  favourite  chair  toward  the  spot  where 
Miss  Cynthia  sat.  The  old  lady  instinctively 
half  rose  to  help  her,  then  settled  back  among 
her  cushions  with  a  sigh.  When,  for  a  time, 
she  forgot  her  dependence  upon  her  crutch, 
the  need  of  it  was  forced  upon  her  more 
sharply  than  ever. 

As  Judith  approached,  she  tried  to  smile,  but 
there  were  pitiful  lines  around  her  mouth. 
"Now,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  to  herself,  "she'll 
tell  me,  in  one  way  or  another — most  likely 
another." 

Judith's  lacy  white  gown  was  open  at  the 
throat,  rippling  away  toward  her  shoulders  in 
a  mass  of  frills.  Her  dark  hair  hung  far  below 
her  waist  in  a  single  heavy  braid.  She  was 
pale,  but  not  quite  colourless.  At  the  first 
glance,  Miss  Cynthia  shrank  from  her  pitiful, 
burning  eyes. 

Judith  spoke  first.  "  I  'm  sorry  to  be  so 
late.  I  believe  I  'm  getting  lazy." 

"How  is  your  headache,  dear  ?" 

"My  headache?"  Judith  frowned,  and  in 
an  instant  recollected  her  last  night's  excuse. 
"It's  better,"  she  said,  wearily,  "but  not  quite 
gone." 

"Have  you  had  breakfast  ?" 

"No.     I  did  n't  care  for  any." 


©ne  Woman 


209 


Miss  Cynthia  tinkled  the  silver  bell  that  she 
kept  by  her.  "We'll  have  coffee  here,"  she 
said.  "A  good  strong  cup  of  coffee  is  some 
times  a  charm  against  evil  spirits." 

Judith  hesitated,  but  did  not  refuse  the 
steaming  cup  when  it  came.  A  bit  of  colour 
appeared  upon  her  cheeks  and  the  scarlet 
of  her  lips  deepened. 

"There,"  smiled  Miss  Cynthia,  "that 's  bet 
ter.  Won't  you  have  an  egg  and  some  but 
tered  toast  ?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

Judith  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  turning  a 
little,  so  that  she  faced  the  hill.  Then  she 
remembered  that  the  House  of  Hearts  stood 
at  the  foot  of  it,  and  with  a  shudder  moved  her 
chair.  She  was  directly  facing  the  house  now, 
with  her  pure,  proud  profile  in  Miss  Cynthia's 
line  of  vision. 

The  older  woman  took  up  her  book  and 
turned  the  pages  listlessly. 

Presently  Judith  asked,  without  interest: 
"What  are  you  reading  ?" 

"Abelard  and  Heloise.  The  old  books  are 
the  best,  like  old  wine — and  old  friends." 

"Quoting  from  motto  cards,  dear  ?" 

"Why  not?  Aren't  they  meant  to  be 
quoted  from  ?" 

"  I  presume  so.  There  seems  to  be  no  other 
use  for  them.  I  detest  a  lot  of  little  mottoes 
stuck  up  around  a  place." 


Coffee  in 
tbe  <Bart>en 


2IO 


a  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Gbdstmas 
(BUts 


"So  do  I." 

"Somebody  had  sent  Mr.  Chandler  a  batch 
of  them  yesterday.  He  was  not  amused,  but 
he  said  the  misguided  person  who  did  it  had 
doubtless  intended  to  be  kind." 

"  I  expect  he  '11  surround  himself  with  them, 
then — to  save  hurting  anyone's  feelings." 

Judith  nodded.  Without  seeming  to,  Miss 
Cynthia  was  watching  her  closely,  in  search  of 
a  clue. 

"  I  never  was  one  to  put  an  ugly  thing  into 
my  house  to  please  anybody  else,"  she  went  on. 
"  I  've  often  wondered  what  our  Christmas 
letters  would  be  like,  if  we  all  told  the  exact 
truth." 

"Christmas  would  come  to  an  end  in  two  or 
three  seasons,  as  far  as  gifts  are  concerned." 

"In  one,  Judith  dear.  You  remind  me  of 
the  Irishman  who  said  that  if  women  refused 
to  marry,  the  whole  race  would  die  out  in 
three  or  four  generations." 

Judith  did  not  smile.  The  slightest  tremor 
ran  through  her  body;  the  faintest  shadow 
crossed  her  face. 

"Matrimony,"  thought  Miss  Cynthia. 
"Woman's  one  great  trouble.  First  to  marry, 
and  get  something  to  worry  about,  then  to  es 
cape  from  it  and  get  rid  of  the  worry."  She 
recalled  Stevenson's  allusion  to  the  long 
straight  road  that  lay  before  one,  hot  and 
dusty,  to  the  grave,  speculated  for  a  moment 


©ne  Moman 


211 


upon  the  general  subject  of  divorce,  then  re 
verted  to  the  cemetery,  where  nobody  wor 
ried  about  anything. 

Or  did  they  worry  ?  She  remembered  Kip 
ling's  poem  about  the  lovers  in  India,  who  rode 
rapidly  at  midnight  past  the  cemetery,  and 
the  dead  stirred  in  their  graves,  because 
"love  rode  abroad  that  night."  And  there 
was  something  else — "it  is  death  that  is  the 
guide  of  our  life,  and  our  life  has  no  goal  but 
death."  Why  did  n't  somebody  have  that 
inscribed  over  the  entrance  to  a  cemetery, 
where  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  were 
of  no  account,  as  in  heaven  ? 

In  an  instant  her  thought  had  come  back  to 
Judith,  pale,  silent,  staring  before  her  with 
eyes  that  did  not  see.  She  tried  another 
avenue  of  approach. 

"Why  doesn't  Mr.  Chandler  give  the 
motto-cards  to  Miss  Margery  ?  She  can  pin 
them  up  on  the  curtains  and  disfigure  the 
walls  of  her  own  room.  If  the  donor  impends 
he  can  ask  her  to  bring  them  down.  Girls  like 
that  sort  of  thing,  as  a  rule." 

At  the  sound  of  the  talismanic  name,  Judith 
paled  perceptibly.  Affecting  not  to  see,  Miss 
Cynthia  prattled  on: 

"Why  doesn't  Miss  Margery  come  to  see 
me  ?  She 's  never  been  here  but  twice.  While 
you  're  up  there,  she  can  come  here,  can't  she  ? 
It 's  not  fair  for  him  to  have  you  both  at  once." 


212 


H  leaver  of  Breams 


Ube 
©ne 


"I  suppose  she  could,"  Judith  replied,  al 
most  inaudibly.  "  I — I  '11  see  about  it." 

"Margery  and  matrimony,"  thought  Miss 
Cynthia.  "Consequently  Carter,  and  nothing 
else.  What  can  he  have  been  doing  ? "  She 
picked  up  the  book  she  had  been  reading. 

"  I  've  always  liked  this,"  she  continued, 
calmly.  "The  thing  is  so  eternally  and  beau 
tifully  just.  Here 's  Abelard,  bravely  set 
forth  on  the  path  of  glory,  living  only  because  of 
the  love  of  the  woman  he  cast  aside." 

Judith  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  ablaze. 
Primitive  Woman  within  her,  sleepless  and  on 
guard,  broke  into  impassioned  speech: 

"But  oh,  Aunt  Cynthia,  to  be  the  one 
woman!  Tortured,  abused,  neglected — even 
starved  and  beaten  if  a  man  so  chooses!  To 
answer  man's  inexplicable  need  of  cruelty — 
to  be  hurt,  as  a  man  must  always  hurt  the 
woman  he  loves,  but  to  know,  always  to  know 
yourself  as  the  one  woman!  To  take  it  all, 
standing,  as  a  brave  man  takes  a  blow,  be 
cause  there  's  no  face  in  his  heart  but  yours, 
no  touch  but  yours  to  stir  him,  no  breast  but 
yours  for  him  to  come  to  when  his  world  is 
wrong!  And  when  there  never  has  been  any 
other  woman,  and  when  you  know,  as  truly  as 
you  know  there  's  a  God,  that  there  never  can 
be,  that  sickness,  mutilation,  poverty,  failure, 
and  the  thousand  other  things  Life  may  bring 
you  count  for  nothing  there — that  even  death 


Ube  ©ne  Woman 


213 


is  no  denial — oh,  Aunt  Cynthia,  how  a  woman 

could  cross  the  desert  on  her  knees  for  the  man       uruwa 

who  would  give  her  that!" 

Pitifully  shaken,  Judith  dropped  into  her 
chair.  She  laughed  hysterically,  then  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Precisely,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  half  to  her 
self.  "  Exactly.  That 's  it." 

Mistaking  her  meaning,  Judith  turned. 
"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  had  it,"  answered  the  old  lady  grimly, 
startled  for  the  moment  into  revelation.  "  I 
was  the  one  woman — once — for  an  hour.  So 
I  know." 

There  was  an  instant's  tense  silence.  Ques 
tioning,  and  even  pleading,  Judith's  eyes 
sought  hers,  but  the  open  way  between  them 
closed  suddenly.  Subtly,  Judith  felt  that  a 
door  had  been  slammed  in  her  face. 

"  You  're  an  intensely  monogamous  person," 
said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
tone.  "  Feminine  instinct,  according  to  the 
books.  The  more  feminine,  the  more  mono 
gamous,  and  so  on.  Conversely,  the  more 
polygamous  a  man  is,  the  more  masculine  he 
is.  That 's  the  cause  of  the  eternal  tragedy. 
Woman  is  a  continuous  design;  man  is  polka 
dots,  and  society  tries  to  make  one  harmonious 
garment  out  of  the  two." 

"Polka  dots!"  echoed  Judith. 

"I   said  polka  dots,  dear.     Large  number 


214 


of  small  affairs  scattered  on  the  background  of 
his  more  serious  pursuits.  Separated,  dis 
tinct,  and  apart.  Man's  supreme  effort  to 
keep  'em  so.  No  desire  to  have  any  one  of 
the  polka  dots  commune  with  another,  and, 
as  it  were,  compare  notes.  The  thing  does  n't 
wash.  Have  n't  you  ever  seen  polka  dots  that 
would  n't  stand  boiling  and  ran  all  over  the 
background  and  into  each  other  ? 

"That  sort  of  man  has  made  a  mess  of  his 
life.  He  's  sued  for  breach  of  promise,  or 
divorce,  or  something.  Anyhow,  he  has  his 
love-letters  read  in  court.  Crowning  humilia 
tion  for  any  man,  except  being  hung  or  e^ec- 
trocuted.  Did  you  ever  read  a  love-letter 
that  was  n't  an  evidence  of  idiocy  —  except 
your  own  ? 

"Upon  the  whole,"  mused  Miss  Cynthia,  re 
ceiving  no  answer,  "dry  cleaning  is  safer,  but 
most  women  are  possessed  with  a  mad  de 
sire  to  test  a  man's  love.  They  want  to  take  a 
sample  of  the  polka  dots,  and  boil  it  in  soap 
suds  and  put  it  in  the  sun,  just  to  see  what  will 
happen.  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  it  '11  run;  any 
how,  it  's  going  to  fade,  so  why  bother  with 
it  ?  Anything  will  break  if  it  falls  far  enough; 
anything  is  coarse  if  you  put  it  under  a  micro 
scope.  Follow  anything  far  enough  and  dis 
illusion  will  hit  you  in  the  face,  get  far  enough 
away  and  everything  is  lovely,  unless  there  's 
too  much  light.  Women  ought  to  pray  for 


215 


near-sighted  souls,  but  they  're  for  ever  looking 
at  men  through  a  sort  of  spiritual  telescope. 
It  does  n't  do." 

"  Your  metaphors  are  confused,"  commented 
Judith,  soberly. 

"Why  not  ?"  demanded  Miss  Cynthia, 
briskly.  "  Everything  else  is." 

"It's  getting  late,"  resumed  Judith,  after 
an  interval  of  silence.  "  I  must  go  in  and  dress. 
I  'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  being  so  lazy." 

"Ask  Ellen  to  come  here  if  you  see  her,  will 
you  please  ?" 

"Certainly." 

With  an  effort,  Miss  Cynthia  preserved  her 
outward  appearance  of  calm  until  Judith  had 
gone  into  the  house.  Then  she  sat  up,  and 
rang  her  little  silver  bell  violently. 

"  Paper  and  envelopes,  please,"  she  said  to 
the  maid,  who  came  in  response  to  a  double 
summons.  "  And  get  yourself  ready  to  go  out." 

Hurriedly,  she  wrote  to  Chandler,  without 
the  formality  of  a  beginning: 

"She's  told  me  but  she  doesn't  know  it. 
He  's  making  love  to  them  both. — C.  B." 

Chandler  puzzled  over  the  message  for  a 
few  minutes,  then  queried,  on  the  back  of 
Miss  Cynthia's  monogrammed  half-sheet  of 
paper: 

"  Who  's  told  you  ?  Who  's  making  love  to 
whom?  Don't  understand.  Please  answer. — 
M.  C." 


on  the 
Situation 


2l6 


DBacfc  an& 
ffortb 


"  Here,  wait  a  minute,"  Miss  Cynthia  called 
to  the  retreating  maid.  "Take  this  right 
back."  Under  his  questions  she  wrote: 

"Judith.  Carter.  Judith  and  Margery. 
Get  it  ?  Some  men  can  be  told  things  and 
others  require  kindergarten  demonstration 
with  beads." 

Expecting  no  more  than  the  briefest  possible 
reply,  Miss  Cynthia  was  dozing  in  her  chair 
when  the  weary  maid  came  back  with  this: 

"Yes — at  last.  I  fear  you  think  me  stupid. 
Somebody  sent  Margery  a  big  box  of  pink  roses 
this  afternoon  with  a  note  which  made  her 
cry.  I  have  n't  seen  her  since.  What  would 
you  do  ?" 

"Here,"  called  Miss  Cynthia.  "You'll 
have  to  go  back  with  the  answer." 

It  was  twenty  minutes'  walk  to  Chandler's, 
the  road  was  dusty,  and  the  day  was  hot.  Flesh 
and  blood  rebelled  at  the  suggestion. 

"  I  '11  go,  Miss  Bancroft,  if  you  want  me  to, 
but  I  think  I  '11  leave  in  the  morning.  I  'm  a 
housemaid,  not  a  messenger." 

"All  right — suit  yourself."  Miss  Cynthia 
was  ruffled,  but  not  by  a  thing  so  slight  as 
that.  "Get  me  a  telegraph  blank,  will  you  ?" 

She  wrote,  to  Chandler:  "Pray  for  Judith. 
I  'm  going  to.  That 's  all  there  is  to  be  done." 

On  the  telegraph  blank  she  wrote,  to  one  of 
the  employment  bureaus  in  town  miscalled 
"an  intelligence  office":  "Send  me  five  new 


©ne  Moman 


217 


maids  immediately.  Will  keep  two  or  three 
and  pay  expenses  of  outing.  This  one  too 
weak  to  walk  and  very  impertinent." 

"Leave  this  at  the  telegraph  office,  please, 
as  you  pass  it  on  the  way  to  Mr.  Chandler's, 
and  speak  to  the  expressman  about  your 
trunk.  You  came  here  to  do  whatever  you 
were  asked  to  do,  and  not  to  tell  me  what 
you  would  do  and  what  you  would  n't.  At 
present,  I  'm  managing  this  place.  No — you 
need  n't  say  anything — it 's  not  necessary." 

A  careless  wave  of  the  hand  sufficed  for  dis 
missal.  Chandler  did  not  answer  Miss  Cyn 
thia's  note.  When  Margery  failed  to  appear 
at  dinner,  he  took  matters  into  his  own  hands, 
and  wrote  a  message  of  quite  another  sort: 

"Mv  DEAR  CARTER: 

"  I  suppose  you  '11  think  it 's  none  of  my 
business,  but  I  don't  know  whose  it  is  if  it 
is  n't  mine.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  why 
you  send  Margery  roses,  and  notes  that  make 
her  cry  ?  She 's  been  miserable  ever  since 
yesterday.  If  you  can  enlighten  me,  I  '11  be 
much  indebted  to  you. 

"  Sincerely, 

"MARTIN  CHANDLER." 

It  was  very  late  when  the  answer  came 
back: 

"Mv  DEAR  MR.  CHANDLER: 

"  I  offended  Margery,  quite  unwittingly, 


CbanMer 

Uafccs 
action 


218 


H  Weaver  ot  H>reams 


Strange 


and  apologised  for  it.     I  'm  very  sorry  she  's 


"Yours, 


unhappy. 


By  the  same  messenger,  Carter  sent  a  note 
to  Judith,  saying  that  he  had  worked  hard  all 
day,  was  very  tired,  and  unless  she  wanted 
to  see  him  especially,  would  go  to  bed  early 
instead  of  coming  over.  He  hoped  she  was 
well,  and  looked  forward  to  seeing  her  to 
morrow  evening,  and,  as  always,  he  was  hers  to 
command. 

He  rather  expected  an  answer,  but  there  was 
none. 

In  the  morning  the  pigeon  flew  from  window 
to  window,  without  being  admitted  at  either 
place  or  receiving  a  message  to  carry.  Be 
sides,  there  was  no  corn.  He  sat  apart  from 
his  fellows  all  day,  brooding  over  it.  Certainly, 
it  was  very  strange! 


XV 

Documents  in  Evifcence 

AUNT  BELINDA  came  out  upon  the  back 
porch  with  her  blue  gingham  apron  full 
of  string  beans.  Uncle  Henry,  busy  for  once, 
was  mending  the  harness,  and  she  observed  it 
with  satisfaction. 

"  Reckon  this  '11  be  about  the  last  time  this 
can  be  mended,"  he  said.  "  Molly  's  got  to 
have  a  new  suit  of  clothes  before  long,  same  's 
I  have." 

Aunt  Belinda  clicked  her  teeth  together 
sharply,  but  made  no  other  audible  comment. 
A  frown  had  spoiled  the  calm  smoothness 
of  her  forehead  and  there  were  unwonted  lines 
about  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"Henry,"  she  said  irrelevantly,  "I  'm  wor 
ried  about  him."  • 

"What  for  ?    He  ain't  sick,  is  he  ?" 

"  I  dunno.  This  morning  he  only  et  one 
sausage  and  when  I  told  him  he  'd  have  to  run 
if  he  made  his  train,  he  said  he  did  n't  care 
whether  he  made  it  or  not." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Henry,  after  a  pause. 
"What  of  it?" 


219 


Bunt  £ea 
lin&a  Us 


22O 


H  TKHeaver  of  2>reams 


JSurean 


Aunt  Belinda's  mouth  closed  into  a  thin 
tight  line.  "Nothin',"  she  replied,  with  ill- 
concealed  sarcasm. 

Perceiving  that  he  was  expected  to  seem 
interested,  he  dropped  the  harness  and  folded 
his  hands.  "What  is  it,  Mother?  What's 
gone  wrong  ?" 

"  I  ain't  said  nothin'  about  it,  because  I 
ain't  one  to  talk  les'n  there 's  something  to 
talk  about,  and  if  there  was  more  that  was 
that  way,  this  world  would  be  a  peacefuller 
place  than  what  't  is." 

"Jes  so,  Mother,"  approved  Uncle  Henry. 
"Jes  so." 

"A  spell  ago,  he  had  women's  stockin's  on 
his  bureau — silk  they  was,  and  fancy — pale 
blue  and  awful  small." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Henry,  undisturbed, 
"what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it  ?  Henry  Warner!  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  you  think  it 's  proper  for  any 
young  man,  much  less  one  that 's  engaged 
to  be  married,  to  have  women's  stockin's  on 
his  bureau  ?" 

"I  ain't  thought  nothing  about  it.  It 
ain't  none  of  our — that  is — my  business,  as  I 
see.  If  he'd  been  ashamed  of  'em,  he'd  have 
hid  'em — he  would  n't  have  left  'em  on  the 
bureau.  And  if  he  'd  done  anythin'  wrong 
he  'd  have  been  ashamed  of  it — you  know 
that,  Mother,  just  as  well  as  I  do." 


Ube  documents  In  Evidence 


221 


"  I  reckon  he  would.  I  had  n't  thought  of 
that." 

"Then  you  ain't  got  no  call  to  worry, 
Mother — not  as  I  see." 

"  I  ain't  told  you  the  rest.  He  ain't  slept 
for  two  nights.  I  've  heard  him  walkin' 
around  and  strikin'  a  light  and  gettin'  up  to 
put  it  out  again.  Soon  's  I  'd  get  to  sleep, 
he  'd  wake  me  up,  walkin'  around.  And  do 
you  know  what  time  't  was  when  he  come  in 
night  before  last  ?" 

Uncle  Henry  shook  his  head. 

"Course  you  don't.  You  don't  know  no- 
thin'  from  the  time  you  get  into  bed  until 
breakfast  is  ready.  If  burglars  was  minded 
to  do  it,  they  could  carry  you  out  and  leave 
you  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  you  'd 
never  know  it.  It  was  most  half-past  two 
when  he  come  in  and  he  ain't  never  stayed  at 
her  house  that  late." 

Silence  ensued,  of  the  intense  variety. 
"Well,"  said  Uncle  Henry.  He  was  about  to 
add :  "  what  of  it  ?"  but,  luckily,  thought  better 
of  it  in  time. 

"And  this  morning,"  resumed  Aunt  Be 
linda,  with  suppressed  excitement,  "  I  emptied 
his  waste-basket.  There  was  things  in  there 
that  would  make  anybody  worry.  There  was 
half  a  dozen  sheets  of  his  best  paper,  some  tore 
and  some  not  tore,  and  all  of  'em  beginning 
either  '  My  dear  Margery,'  or  '  My  dear  Miss 


f  n  tbc 

TOaete- 
Kasftet 


222 


H  Meaner  of  2>reams 


Scraps  of 
letters 


Margery/  or  'My  dear  Miss  Gordon/  On 
some  of  'em  he  said  he  was  very  sorry  for  what 
happened  yesterday,  and  on  others  he  said  he 
could  n't  truthfully  say  he  was  sorry,  because  it 
was  something  sweet  to  remember  all  the  rest 
of  his  life. 

"On  another  one  he  says:  'Will  you  forgive 
me,  if  you  can — or  is  there  no  forgiveness  for 
such  as  I?'  and  on  another  he  says,  'I  must 
have  seemed  like  a  brute  to  you.  Oh,  tell  me 
I  did  n't — that  you  do  care  a  little/  And  on 
another  sheet,  way  down  in  one  corner,  he  'd 
written  'Margery  Gordon'  twice  and  under 
it  in  smallest  kind  of  writin'  'Margery  Gordon 
Keith/  He  'd  tore  it  almost  straight  through 
but  I  put  it  together  again." 

"Well  I  '11  be  jiggered!"  said  Uncle  Henry, 
slowly.  It  was  the  strongest  language  he 
permitted  himself  to  use  in  Aunt  Belinda's 
presence. 

"Then,  last  night,  while  you  was  takin'  your 
evenin'  nap  to  get  yourself  rested  so  's  you 
could  go  to  bed,  that  man  that  works  for 
Martin  Chandler  come  with  a  letter.  I 
reckon  't  was  from  her.  And  it  took  him 
more  'n  half  an  hour  to  answer  it.  There  's 
another  letter  in  the  waste-basket,  with  no  be- 
ginnin'  to  it,  askin'  to  be  excused  unless  she 
wanted  to  see  him  especially,  on  account  of 
havin'  worked  hard  all  day  and  bein'  more 
than  common  tired.  And  he  did  n't  sleep 


Ube  documents  in  Evidence 


223 


none  last  night.  He  was  walkin'  and  lightin' 
lights  and  blowin'  'em  out  again,  and  turnin' 
over  in  bed  every  other  minute  when  he  wa'n't 
walkin'  and  blowin'  out  lights. 

"And  this  morning  when  I  was  out  in  the 
front  yard,  who  should  come  by  but  Miss 
Bancroft's  Ellen,  all  packed  up  for  leavin'. 
I  says,  'Are  you  leavin','  and  she  says  she  be, 
and  1  asked  her  what  for,  and  she  said  she  was 
tired  of  bein'  a  messenger  boy,  and  that  all  day 
yesterday  she  was  runnin'  between  Miss  Ban 
croft's  and  Chandler's  with  letters." 

"Whose  letters?" 

"Miss  Cynthia's  and  Mr.  Chandler's  let 
ters.  She  had  to  wait  while  they  wrote  to 
each  other.  Both  Miss  Cynthia  and  Mr. 
Chandler  was  dreadful  upset  about  somethin' 
or  other.  And  she  said  she  'd  been  sick  all 
day." 

"What  was  she  runnin'  around  for  if  she  was 
sick  ?"  queried  Uncle  Henry,  naturally  con 
fusing  the  pronouns. 

"  I  don't  mean  she,  I  mean  her, — Miss 
Judith." 

"  Maybe  they've  fit,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
pious  resignation. 

"  Maybe  they  ain't.  Miss  Judith  ain't  the 
fightin'  sort.  And  he  ain't  neither.  All  these 
four  or  five  years  that  he 's  been  livin'  here 
they  've  got  along  as  peaceful  and  quiet  as  a 
basket  of  kittens  and  if  they  've  fit,  there 's  not 


Tftpeet 

about 

Something 


224 


H  Weaver  ot  Dreams 


Ijec  ©tits 
to  Cartel 


only  some  good  reason,  but  it 's  her  that 's 
done  it."  Sex-loyalty  was  one  of  Aunt  Be 
linda's  finer  characteristics. 

"And,"  she  resumed,  bristling,  "if  he's 
gone  and  made  that  girl  feel  bad,  and  her  bein' 
so  nice  and  quiet  and  so  kind  to  everybody — 
well,  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  him  what  I  think  of  him, 
that 's  all." 

"Maybe  he  ain't  carin'  what  you  think  of 
him.  I  've  knowed  folks  what  did  n't  care 
what  anybody  thought  of  'em — leastways  not 
enough  to  ask  or  to  set  quiet  while  they  was 
bein'  told.  If  I  was  you,  Belinda,  I  would  n't 
bother  my  head  none  about  it.  As  long  as  he 
pays  his  board  regular,  I  don't  see  that  we  've 
got  any  concern  with  his  morals." 

"Henry  Warner!  That  boy  ain't  got  no 
mother." 

"Well,  neither  have  I." 

"  You  don't  need  none.  You  're  old  enough 
to  have  sense.  And  besides,  if  you  ever- 
want  to  know  what  ought  to  be  did  about 
anything  you  can  always  come  and  ask 
me." 

"  If  I  ain't  told  first,"  he  remarked,  dreamily, 
then,  quickly  recollecting  himself,  he  asked: 
"Who's  Margery?" 

"  I  've  been  telling  you  that  ever  since  she 
come.  I  ain't  seen  her  myself  but  some  of  the 
ladies  at  the  Sewin'  Circle  have.  They  said 
she  was  an  awful  pretty  little  thing.  Her  pa 


documents  in  Evidence  225 


sent  her  to  stay  at  Chandler  s  for  a  spell. 

IT        '        A          A" 

He  s  dead. 

"  How  can  he  send  her  if  he  's  dead  ?"  l°  See 

"  He  sent  her  before  he  died,"  returned  Aunt 
Belinda,  with  wifely  patience. 
"Was  she  here  when  he  died  ?" 
"No,  but  when  he  was  dyin'  he  told  her  to 
come  here  after  he  was  dead,  and  he  writ  to 
Mr.  Chandler  and  asked  him  if  he  would 
be  a  father  to  his  little  girl  for  a  few  months. 
The  man  that  works  for  him  found  the  letter 
and  he  told  Miss  Bancroft's  Ellen,  and  Ellen 
told  me.  She  was  up  there  twice — once  to 
supper.  I  ain't  seen  her  myself,  but  I  'm 
layin'  out  to." 

"When  ?"  he  queried,  without  much  in 
terest. 

"This  afternoon.  Soon  's  I  've  got  your  din 
ner  and  washed  the  dishes  and  got  the  kitchen 
cleared  up  and  the  things  ready  for  supper, 
I  am  goin'  to  put  on  my  best  dress  and  go  up 
there  and  call  on  her." 

"Won't  she  think  it 's  funny  ?" 
"  I  dunno  why  she  should.  It 's  manners  for 
the  old  residents  to  call  on  the  newcomers  and 
there  ain't  one  of  the  Sewin'  Circle  ladies  been 
near  her.  Besides,  I  ain't  been  up  to  see  Mr. 
Chandler  for  quite  a  spell.  I  'm  goin'  to  take 
him  some  fresh  eggs.  They  don't  keep  chickens 
nor  even  a  cow  and  Eliza  told  Ellen  that  once 
when  she  was  breakin'  one  of  the  store  eggs  to 


226 


H  Meaver  of  Breams 


Deters 
mine&  to 
find  Out 


make  a  custard  that  it  exploded  when  she 
touched  it  and  hit  her  in  the  eye." 

"Must  have  been  in  the  winter  time,"  he 
commented,  "  when  it 's  hard  to  get  fresh  eggs." 

"  I  dunno  when  't  was.  Anyhow,  there  's 
no  reason  why  I  should  n't  go  up  and  see  Mr. 
Chandler,  and  while  I  'm  there  it  '11  be  natural 
for  me  to  see  this  Margery,  as  they  call  her. 
Maybe  I  can  find  out  from  him  what 's  wrong 
and  then  I  '11  know  what  to  say  to  Mr.  Keith 
if  I  see  it 's  my  duty  to  talk  to  him  as  his  own 
mother  would  if  she  was  alive." 

Uncle  Henry  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair. 
He  disliked  the  idea  of  Carter's  being  "talked 
to."  "  I  hope  you  won't  see  it  as  your  duty, 
Mother.  What  ain't  our  business  ain't  our 
duty  more  'n  once  in  a  blue  moon." 

"Never  you  mind,  Father.  I  'm  goin'  to 
find  out  what 's  up  before  I  'm  much  older." 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  talk  to  her,  then  ?" 

"Which  'her'?" 

"Miss  Bancroft.  If  they  was  writin'  let 
ters  all  day  yesterday — her  an'  Chandler — 
it 's  likely  she  knows  as  much  as  he  does,  ain't 
it  ?  Why  n't  you  go  there  ?  Maybe  you  can 
talk  to  Miss  Judith,  too." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Aunt 
less  you  're  a  lot  smarter  'n 


Belinda.     "Un- 
I  be,  you  can't 


find  out  nothin'  from  a  woman.    Mr.  Chan 
dler  's  the  one  I  want  to  see." 

Uncle  Henry  gave  it  up.     He  knew  that 


documents  in  Evidence  227 


further  argument  would  only  make  her  "more 
sot  in  her  way,"  as  he  termed  it,  to  himself. 
He  took  the  harness  out  of  the  barn  and  wheeled 
the  buggy  out  into  the  yard.  I  nstead  of  spend 
ing  a  hot  afternoon  peacefully  in  the  cool, 
shaded  parlour,  he  would  be  driving  in  the 
blistering  sun  —  so  much  was  certain. 

Cold  chills  ran  through  him  at  the  thought 
that  he  might  be  taken  there  also.  Immedi 
ately  he  conceived  numerous  errands  which 
would  have  to  be  done  at  the  "store"  —  all 
plausible  and  admitting  of  no  postponement. 

But  Aunt  Belinda  did  not  even  suggest  that 
he  should  do  more  than  leave  her  at  the  gate. 
When  she  came  out,  in  her  best  black  silk 
and  her  "  Sunday-go-to-meetin'  "  bonnet,  with 
eight  or  ten  fresh  eggs  in  a  small  basket,  she  was 
too  thoroughly  alive  to  the  importance  of  her 
errand  to  talk  at  all. 

Deeply  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  she 
did  not  speak  until  they  reached  the  cross 
roads,  then  she  said,  merely:  "You  can  come 
back  in  an  hour,  Henry.  If  I  ain't  ready  to  go 
then,  I  '11  tell  you  when  you  can  come  back 
again." 

Chandler's  wheeled  chair  was  on  the  porch. 
He  nodded  to  Uncle  Henry  and  called  to  him 
to  know  whether  he  were  not  coming  in,  too. 
Uncle  Henry  shouted  a  concise  negative  and 
drove  away  hastily. 

"  Henry  's  busy,"  said  Aunt  Belinda,  as  she 


228 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Ubc 
(Call  on 

GbanMer 


came  up  the  few  steps  and  offered  Chandler  a 
moist  but  friendly  hand.  "  Farmers  is  terrible 
drove  at  this  season  of  the  year.  I  've  brought 
you  some  fresh  eggs.  Your  Eliza  was  tellin' 
Miss  Bancroft's  Ellen  that  when  she  took  up  a 
store  egg  to  make  you  a  custard  that  it  busted 
and  hit  her  in  the  eye." 

"  I  had  n't  heard  about  that,"  Chandler  re 
turned,  repressing  a  smile,  "but  it's  mighty 
good  of  you.  Would  n't  you  like  that  other 
chair  better  ?  Try  the  rocker." 

"No,  thank  you.  I  'm  comfortable  where 
I  be.  I  never  was  one  to  set  much  in  rockin' 
chairs.  I  ain't  had  time.  Most  of  my  set- 
tin'  has  been  done  in  straight-backed  chairs 
and  when  I  do  have  time  to  rest  I  don't  often 
take  a  rocker. 

"On  account  of  Henry's  havin'  business  in 
town,  I  thought  I  'd  come  along  and  bring 
the  eggs  and  set  a  spell  with  you.  I  ain't  seen 
you  for  a  long  time." 

"No,"  returned  Chandler,  absently.  "You 
have  n't." 

"  I  heard  you  had  company,"  she  began. 

"Company?    Oh,  yes — Margery." 

"Relative  ?"  queried  Aunt  Belinda,  politely. 

"No — the  daughter  of  an  old  friend.  The 
dearest,  prettiest — she  seems  as  though  she 
might  be  my  own  daughter,"  he  concluded 
abruptly. 

"  I  've  wondered  sometimes,"  returned  Aunt 


Ube  ^Documents  in  Evidence  229 

Belinda,  with  the  suspicion  of  a  tremor  in  her 
voice,  "what  it  would  be  like  to  have  a  daugh 
ter — or  a  son." 

"To  have  a  daughter  would  be  like  having 
Margery  always — and  to  know  that  she  'd 
never  go  away,  except  to  be  married." 

"And  havin'  a  son,  I  reckon,  would  be  like 
havin'  him  around  for  ever  just  as  he  is,  lit- 
terin'  up  everything  and  splashin'  water  all 
over  the  place.  Only  a  son  would  be  leavin' 
to  get  married,  too — just  as  he  's  goin'  to." 

Unwonted  lines  of  sadness  settled  around 
her  mouth;  the  old  eyes  grew  misty.  She 
took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  them  vigor 
ously. 

"Cheer  up,"  said  Chandler,  kindly.  "I  'm 
sure  you  '11  see  him  often." 

"  But  not  often  enough.  I  don't  now.  He  's 
always  goin'  away." 

"And  coming  back,  too,  is  n't  he  ?  Re 
member  that  he  could  n't  go  away  unless  he 
had  come  back." 

"That's  so,"  mused  Aunt  Belinda.  "I 
ain't  never  thought  of  that." 

Chandler  rang  the  bell  that  summoned  his 
attendant.  "Will  you  ask  Miss  Gordon  to 
come  down  for  a  little  while,  please,  if  she 
feels  like  it  ?" 

Margery  appeared,  presently,  in  white,  with 
a  string  of  blue  beads  around  her  throat,  and 
her  wonderful  hair  piled  high  upon  her  head 


230 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Self* 

possession 


in  a  big  loose  knot.  She  murmured  the  con 
ventional:  "Glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Warner." 

"Most  everybody  calls  me  Aunt  Belinda, 
and  I  ain't  got  a  niece  or  nephew  to  my  name. 
Henry  says  if  I  was  aunt  to  everybody  that 
calls  me  so,  I  'd  have  to  live  in  an  ant-hill. 
But  people  call  him  Uncle  Henry,  too.  I 
reckon  't  was  him  that  started  it." 

"Him  ?"  queried  Margery,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes — Mr.  Keith.     He  lives  with  me." 

"Oh,"  said  Margery.     "Does  he  ?" 

"Ain't  he  told  you  where  he  lives  ?  1 
thought  you  knew  him." 

"  I  've  met  him  once  or  twice,"  returned 
Margery,  "but  I  can't  say  I  know  him." 
She  coloured  faintly  as  she  spoke,  but  her 
self-possession  would  have  done  credit  to  a 
woman  twice  her  age.  Chandler  smiled  at 
her  approvingly. 

"  I  '11  go  and  get  my  sewing  if  nobody 
minds,"  she  said,  rising.  When  the  sound  of 
her  light  feet  died  away  upon  the  stairs,  Aunt 
Belinda  turned  to  Chandler. 

"  What 's  she  writin'  to  him  for,  if  she 
does  n't  know  him  ?" 

"Who?"  asked  Chandler,  startled  for  the 
moment. 

"She,"  with  an  inclination  of  her  head  to 
ward  the  door  through  which  Margery  had 
disappeared. 

"When?" 


documents  in  Bvtoence 


231 


"Last  night.  Your  man  come  with  a  letter 
and  it  took  him  more  'n  half  an  hour  to  answer 
it." 

"Oh,"  he  returned,  somewhat  relieved. 
"That  was  my  letter.  I  wrote  to  Carter  my 
self — upon  a  matter  of  business,"  he  added. 
Then,  after  an  interval:  "Why  ?" 

"NothhY,"  returned  Aunt  Belinda,  some 
what  confused.  "  I  was  just  wonderin'." 

"There's  nothing  to  wonder  about,"  he 
assured  her,  trying  not  to  be  too  abrupt. 

"Isn't  there,  though?"  she  thought.  For 
the  moment  she  was  tempted  to  tell  him  what 
she  had  found  in  the  waste-basket,  but  wisely 
refrained. 

Margery  returned  presently  with  her  work. 
The  remainder  of  the  conversation  was  upon 
topics  of  general  interest,  such  as  the  long 
period  of  unbroken  heat,  the  possibility  of  rain 
in  the  near  future,  the  low  water  in  the  river, 
and  so  on.  Aunt  Belinda  was  rather  relieved 
when  Uncle  Henry  appeared  at  the  gate,  fifteen 
minutes  before  the  appointed  time.  His  watch 
had  stopped,  and  fearing  that  he  would  be 
late,  he  had  erred  in  the  right  direction. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Chandler.  I  '11  come  again 
soon.  Good-bye,  Miss ' 

"Gordon,"  supplied  Margery,  with  cool 
politeness. 

"  Miss  Gordon.  I  'd  like  to  have  you  come 
to  see  me  sometime,  if  you  want  to." 


flotbing  to 


232 


H  TKHeaver  ot  Dreams 


Dot  flOucb 
Satisfac 
tion 


"Thank  you,  I  will." 

The  words  were  irreproachable  and  the  ac 
companying  smile  was  dazzling,  but  neverthe 
less,  Margery  had  managed  to  convey  the 
impression  of  great  distance. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  as  they  turned  at  the 
cross-roads,  "did  you  find  out  what  you  wanted 
to  know?" 

"  I  ain't  found  out  nothing"  remarked  Aunt 
Belinda,  tartly.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  go  around 
among  my  neighbours  to  gossip  ?  I  ain't 
that  kind  of  a  woman,  I  'd  have  you  know." 

"Oh,"  said  Uncle  Henry.  "I  thought  you 
was  goin'  to  find  out  somethin'.  I  disremem- 
ber  what  it  was." 

Aunt  Belinda  grunted  an  unintelligible  an 
swer.  With  the  tactlessness  possible  only  to 
husbands,  he  went  on  heedlessly: 

"  You  was  goin'  to  find  out  somethin'  from 
Chandler — about  him.*  Don't  you  recall  it  ?" 

"Oh,  that  ?"  With  apparent  effort  she 
searched  the  depths  of  her  memory  for  a  bit  of 
unimportant  fact  with  which,  for  some  reason 
best  known  to  himself,  Uncle  Henry  desired 
to  become  acquainted. 

"  He  wrote  the  letter  himself — on  a  business 
matter.  She  did  n't  write  to  him  at  all." 

"How  did  you  find  out  ?" 

"He  told  me  of  his  own  accord.  Men  is 
easy  to  get  things  out  of — they  '11  tell  all  they 
know  if  you  find  'em  in  the  right  mood." 


Documents  in  Evidence 


"Humph!"  said  Uncle  Henry. 

"But  that  Margery/'  continued  Aunt  Be 
linda,  with  evident  feeling,  "  I  tell  you,  she 's 
a  slick  one!" 

"Pretty?" 

"My,  yes — and  that  polite!  Regular  city 
manners.  I  'm  worried  about  him,  someway, 
but  I  dunno  why." 

"  You  ain't  got  no  call  to  worry,  Belinda. 
Just  set  easy  and  let  things  take  their  natural  , 
course.    That 's  the  way  I  do." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ironically,  "  that 's 
the  way  you  do  and  no  mistake.  I  never  saw 
anybody  set  quite  so  easy." 

She  went  on  volubly  until  she  noticed  that 
Uncle  Henry  was  almost  asleep.  When  Carter 
came  home,  smiling  and  pleasant,  as  was  his 
wont,  she  was  vaguely  reassured,  yet,  in  her 
heart,  she  knew,  through  her  sure  feminine 
instinct,  that  all  was  not  right  with  him  who, 
in  her  inmost  thoughts,  she  termed  "her 
boy." 


234 


Starting 


XVI 

a  CbaUenge 

attired  himself  for  the  inevitable 
with  solemn  care.  It  was  relief  of  a 
minor  sort,  but  still  relief,  that  the  car  had 
been  repaired  and  he  would  not  be  obliged 
to  walk  along  the  road  where  he  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  an  unhappy  night  in  shamed 
questioning  of  himself. 

In  spite  of  his  legal  training,  he  was  too 
young  and  too  thoroughly  healthy  in  mind  and 
body  to  be  much  given  to  self-analysis.  He 
had  brought  red  roses  for  Judith  and  white 
roses  for  Miss  Cynthia,  and  was  whistling 
to  himself,  though  half-heartedly,  when  he 
started  off. 

Accusing  conscience  bade  him  linger  on  the 
road;  impulse  urged  him  to  take  a  longer  route 
and  pass  Chandler's  house,  where  he  might 
possibly  have  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  Margery, 
but,  with  his  mouth  resolutely  set,  he  turned 
toward  Miss  Bancroft's. 

The  two  women  were  upon  the  upper  bal 
cony.  Occupied  with  the  car,  he  did  not  see 
Miss  Cynthia  bend  over  to  get  her  crutch,  nor 


H  Gballenge 


235 


did  he  hear  Judith's  low-voiced  plea:  "No 
— no!  Please  stay!  Just  as  long  as  you 
possibly  can!" 

The  old  lady's  presence  was  a  relief  to  Carter 
also.  He  spoke  to  her,  then  bent  over  to  kiss 
Judith  as  was  his  wont,  not  noting,  in  the  con 
fusion  of  the  moment,  that  she  turned  her 
cheek. 

"How  are  you,  dear  ?"  he  asked,  trying  to 
keep  his  voice  even.  "  Better  ?" 

"Quite  myself  again,  thank  you,"  she  mur 
mured,  hiding  her  face  in  the  roses.  "How 
exquisite  these  are!  I  must  put  them  in  water. 
Shall  I  take  yours,  too,  Aunt  Cynthia  ?" 

Carter  drew  a  long  breath  as  Judith  dis 
appeared  in  the  dusk  of  the  unlighted  room. 
The  awkward  first  moment  was  over  and  the 
path  lay  straight  ahead,  difficult  though  it 
might  prove  to  be. 

"Was  Judith  really  ill  ?"  he  asked,  unable  to 
think  of  anything  else  to  say. 

"She  was,"  returned  Miss  Cynthia,  con 
cisely.  "Why?" 

"It  is  n't  like  her  to  have  headaches." 

"No  ?  I  think  we  all  do  things  sometimes 
that  are  n't  like  us,  don't  you  ?  Did  you  never 
do  anything  yourself  that  was  conspicuously 
out  of  character  ?" 

The  random  shot  told,  and  even  in  the  twi 
light,  Miss  Cynthia  saw  the  colour  surge  into 
his  face.  "  Yes,"  he  returned,  "  I  have." 


"Cbe  Hwfea 

warb  ffitst 

DDoment 


236 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


TRttbat •« 
TOltong  1 


"Then  don't  blame  Judith/'  Sex-loyalty, 
the  distinguishing  mark  of  a  woman  who  is 
really  fine,  was  rampant  in  Miss  Cynthia. 

"  I  've  missed  you,"  Carter  said,  when  Judith 
came  back.  "Night  before  last  I  walked  all 
over  the  map,  and  even  after  that,  for  some 
reason,  I  could  n't  sleep.  So,  last  night,  after 
a  hard  day  in  town,  I  was  done  up." 

"That  wasn't  like  you,"  commented  Miss 
Cynthia,  with  malicious  intent. 

"No,"  the  young  man  agreed,  moodily. 

"Quite  out  of  character,"  the  old  lady  went 
on. 

"Quite,"  Carter  assented,  politely. 

Beneath  the  meaningless  words,  Judith  de 
tected  warlike  possibilities.  When  the  en 
suing  silence  threatened  to  become  awkward 
she  relieved  it  with  a  laugh. 

"We're  all  in  the  dumps  to-night,"  she 
said.  "What 's  wrong  with  us  ?" 

"It 's  the  waning  moon,"  Miss  Cynthia  re 
sponded.  "  If  it  affects  lunatics,  when  it 's  at 
the  full,  why  should  n't  sane  people  notice 
changes  in  it  too  ?"  She  sat  up  in  her  chair, 
very  straight.  "I  hate  dying  things,"  she 
said,  passionately — "twilight,  waning  moons, 
autumn,  old  age,  roses  that  drop  their  petals — 
everything.  Why  do  they  have  to  do  it  ?" 

"Why,  indeed  ?"  echoed  Carter. 

"It  is  death  that  is  the  guide  of  our  life," 
quoted  Judith,  "and  our  life  has  no  goal  but 


H  Cballenae 


death.  Our  death  is  the  mould  into  which 
our  life  flows — it  is  death  that— 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake,"  cried  Carter,  "cut 
that  out!  I  feel  as  though  I  were  making  an 
evening  call  in  a  cemetery!"  He  rose  and 
paced  back  and  forth  nervously.  "  I  '11  smoke, 
if  you  don't  mind.  I  would  n't  be  surprised 
to  have  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father  appear 
before  me  at  any  minute." 

"Hamlet's  father's  ghost  would  be  sur 
prised,"  Miss  Cynthia  remarked.  "It's  a 
long  jump  from  the  stage  to  the  deck  of  a 
stranded  ocean  liner  in  a  garden  that 's  dying 
for  rain — I  beg  your  pardon,  Carter — I  did  n't 
mean  to  say  'dying.'  I  intended  to  say  that 
we  needed  rain  and  to  ask  what  you  thought  of 
the  prospects  for  it.  And,  speaking  of  ghosts, 
why  should  n't  there  be  at  least  one  ghost  in  a 
little  hamlet  like  Edgerton  ?" 

Carter  laughed  a  little,  but  only  to  be  polite. 
"You  remind  me  of  the  two  road  companies 
that  happened  to  strike  a  small  town  at  the 
same  time,  with  an  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  show. 
The  one  that  got  the  business  advertised  two 
Uncle  Toms,  three  little  Evas,  and  had  Eliza 
cross  the  ice  until  the  audience  hissed  her." 

Miss  Cynthia  dropped  into  a  reminiscent 
mood.  Her  usual  high  spirits  had  sunk  to 
their  lowest  ebb;  she  suffered  from  the  mel 
ancholy  reaction.  Last  night's  dreams  still 
haunted  her,  as  they  had  all  day — not  the 


238 


H  Meaver  of  Dreams 


©VCts 

wbelming 
©loom 


inconsequent  sort,  usually  ridiculous  and  to 
be  dispersed  with  a  smile,  but  the  pitiful 
ones  in  which  the  dead  come  back,  with  out 
stretched  hands  and  pleading  eyes,  to  forgive — 
or  to  be  forgiven. 

Symbols  of  mourning  persisted  in  her 
thought — long  unlighted  paths,  weeping-wil 
lows,  white  gates  with  cypresses  on  either 
side,  and  wreaths  of  laurel  tied  with  purple 
ribbon.  The  gloom  of  the  garden  was  not  the 
peaceful  dusk,  at  the  close  of  a  hot  day;  it 
was  menacing,  overwhelming.  Everything 
conveyed  to  Miss  Cynthia  the  sense  of  fore 
boding — of  impending  disaster. 

"Our  cow  is  very  sick,"  Carter  was  saying. 
"Aunt  Belinda  said  at  supper  that  if  she  should 
die,  we  would  be  obliged  to  get  our  butter  from 
the  crematory." 

With  a  rush  Miss  Cynthia's  normal  gaiety 
came  back.  "  Dear  child,"  she  said  to  Carter 
in  the  midst  of  her  laughter,  "you  make 
me  very  sad.  How  your  thoughts  do  run  upon 
ghosts,  crematories,  and  the  like!  You  're  a 
most  depressing  person.  Can't  you  think  of 
something  pleasant?" 

"Only  of  you,"  he  returned,  gallantly. 
"What  could  be  more  pleasant  ?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  with  child-like  can 
dour,  "when  I  am  in  the  mood." 

Not  quite  at  ease,  Judith  slipped  into  the 
sitting-room,  lighted  the  tall  candles  upon  the 


239 

mantel-shelf,  and  drew  her  harp  close  to  the 
open  window.  She  was  self-conscious  to  her 
finger  tips.  Primitive  Woman  within  her 
urged  her  to  go  to  Carter,  tell  him  what  she 
had  seen,  and  ask  for  an  explanation.  Modern 
Woman,  thinly  veneered  upon  the  essential 
femininity  of  her  nature,  bade  her  be  quiet, 
watching  if  she  chose,  but  to  wait.  She  re 
flected,  as  she  struck  the  first  chord,  that  the 
greater  part  of  life  was  spent  in  waiting,  any 
way,  and  that  those  who  have  learned  to  wait 
patiently  are  those  who  have  learned  to  live. 

Her  face  was  in  the  shadow  as  she  played, 
but,  from  where  he  sat,  Carter  could  see  the 
delicate  outline  of  her  profile  and  the  full 
rounded  throat,  rising  regally  from  the  band  of 
black  velvet  around  the  low  neck  of  her  scarlet 
gown.  Having  felt  the  need  of  colour,  she 
fairly  blazed  with  it.  She  seldom  wore  jewels, 
but  to-night,  aside  from  her  ruby  ring,  she  wore 
diamonds  and  emeralds  upon  both  hands,  an 
antique  bracelet,  an  Oriental  necklace,  and  a 
wide  band  of  brilliants  in  her  dark  hair. 

She  had  no  rouge,  but  she  had  put  a  bit  of 
false  crimson  upon  her  cheeks  and  lips  with 
nail-paste,  then  angrily  washed  it  off,  despising 
herself  for  the  subterfuge. 

The  candlelight  wooed  dancing  gleams  of 
fire  from  the  band  of  brilliants.  Above  the 
mantel-shelf,  the  glass  eyes  of  the  moth-eaten 
stag's  head  stared  straight  into  the  darkness — 


240 


H  TKfleaver  ot  Dreams 


Ube 
tmrp'9 
Voice 


"a  pitiful  mockery  of  the  fleet  incarnation  of  the 
forest  that  once,  stepping  so  softly  that  even 
the  leaves  beneath  his  feet  did  not  rustle, 
waited,  with  dreamy  eyes,  at  the  border  of  the 
stream,  for  the  low,  sweet  call  of  his  mate. 

Fitfully,  too,  a  gleam  of  old  silver  came  from 
the  cabinet  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room. 
From  a  table  in  front  of  the  bookcase,  half  in 
shadow  and  half  in  flickering  light,  Carter's 
red  roses,  in  a  brass  jar,  breathed  fragrance  into 
the  room.  Somewhere,  outside,  a  cricket 
chirped  shrilly,  unmindful  of  the  harp. 

The  full  deep  chords  trembled  out  into  the 
night,  thrilling  like  the  soul  of  the  woman  who 
woke  them  from  their  silence,  with  passion  and 
with  pain.  The  harp's  voice  was  hers,  now, 
crying  out  in  desperate  appeal  for  the  things 
which  belonged  to  her  by  divine  right. 

Miss  Cynthia  stirred  restlessly  in  her  chair. 
What  possessed  Judith  to  play  like  that  ? 
Had  the  woman  no  shame,  to  lay  bare  her 
heart  for  all  the  world  to  see  ?  Then  she  re 
flected,  sagely,  that  Carter,  being  a  man,  was 
protected  by  his  own  stupidity  from  ever 
knowing  much  about  any  woman  that  she  did 
not  tell  him  herself.  This  wild  music  was  to 
her  as  intimate  a  revelation  of  Judith  as  her 
white  face  and  pitiful  eyes  had  been  the  day 
before.  A  single  glance  at  Carter  assured  her 
that  the  music  carried  no  deep  meaning,  if, 
indeed,  he  heard  it  at  all. 


H  Cballenae 


241 


Outwardly  calm  and  collected,  Carter  took 
subconscious  note  of  the  details  of  the  room 
with  that  precise  observation  one  accords 
to  trifles  in  moments  of  stress.  One  of  the 
tinkling  prisms  that  hung  from  the  chandelier 
was  broken,  three  of  the  books  in  the  book 
case  were  pushed  too  far  in,  out  of  line,  a 
vacant  space  in  the  red-bound  edition  of 
Stevenson  indicated  what  Miss  Cynthia  was 
reading  at  present.  The  trellis  at  the  end  of 
the  veranda,  where  the  wild  grape  vine  climbed 
up  from  below,  was  loose,  and  the  next  high 
wind  would  be  likely  to  blow  it  down. 

Yet,  consciously,  Judith  dominated  him  as 
she  dominated  the  room.  Never  had  she  been 
more  beautiful,  more  perfect  than  to-night. 
Still,  the  essential  thing  between  them  was 
lacking;  the  bubble  had  burst.  He  was  the 
same  man — Judith  the  same  woman,  and,  in 
two  days,  he  had  gone  back  to  the  point  he 
started  from — liking,  admiration,  sympathy, 
and  understanding,  but  not  love. 

Blue  eyes  came  before  him,  to  trouble  and  to 
beckon,  sweet  lips  answered  to  his  as  the  lips 
of  only  one  woman  may  ever  answer  any  man. 
With  a  pang,  he  crushed  it  down,  in  defiant 
loyalty  to  Judith.  What  if  she  knew — what 
if  she  had  already  guessed  ?  Could  it  have 
been  that  which  made  her  ill  ? 

"It'll  come  back,"  he  said  to  himself, 
miserably.  "It's  got  to  come  back — that  'sail !" 


ttbe 

Essential 
Missing 


H  Weaver  of  HJreams 


a  Subfcen 

fnepira* 

Won 


The  music  ceased.  The  last  rippling  chord 
died  away  in  an  echo  that  was  at  once  a  ques 
tion  and  a  call.  Subtly  the  moment  demanded 
from  Carter  something  he  had  not  in  his 
power  to  give. 

"Dear,"  he  said — and  his  voice  was  very 
gentle — "that's  lovely,  but  the  harp  isn't 
what  you  might  call  a  joyous  instrument. 
Will  you  come  out  in  the  car  ?" 

"Oh — no,"  answered  Judith,  hoping,  yet 
fearing  to  be  alone  with  him. 

"Go,"  urged  Miss  Cynthia.  "You  have  n't 
been  out  of  the  yard  for  two  days.  It  will 
do  you  good." 

"Come,"  said  Carter,  rising. 

A  pile  of  music  upon  a  low  stool  beside  her 
gave  her  a  sudden  inspiration.  Why  not  ? 
Her  eyes  flashed  for  a  moment  and  her  colour 
rose,  then  she  faded  and  softened  again  into 
her  accustomed  calm. 

"I  '11  get  my  coat,"  she  said.  "It  will  be 
cool  if  we  go  fast." 

"Take  mine,  dear,"  pleaded  Miss  Cynthia. 
"  Please  wear  my  white  coat." 

So  Judith  came  out,  presently,  in  Miss 
Cynthia's  long  white  opera  coat,  heavy  with 
lace  and  silver,  the  white  fur  of  the  lining  lying 
caressingly  upon  her  bare  neck  and  arms. 
"  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  stand  the  warmth 
of  it  or  not,"  she  smiled,  "but  the  luxury  of 
it  bids  me  endure  anything  for  its  own  sake." 


H  Gballenge  243 


She  took  a  sheet  of  music  from  the  stool, 
rolled  it  up,  snapped  a  rubber  band  around  it, 
and  bent  to  kiss  Miss  Cynthia. 

"Good-bye,  dear.     I  won't  be  gone  long." 

"Lovely  night,"  said  Carter,  as  he  assisted 
her  to  her  usual  place  beside  him. 

"Yes,"  returned  Judith,  in  cool,  even 
tones.  "Isn't  it!" 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go  ?"  he  asked,  as 
they  started. 

"To  Mr.  Chandler's,  please.  I  have  some 
music  for  him." 

Carter  moved  nervously  in  his  seat.  "Why 
take  it  to-night?  Could  n't  he  wait  for  it?" 

"Why  not  take  it  to-night  ?"  asked  Judith, 
unemotionally. 

There  was  no  answer  to  that,  though  in 
Carter's  mind  there  were  many  reasons. 
"  I  don't  care  about  making  calls,"  he  said, 
moodily. 

"No?  Perhaps  as  Uncle  Henry  says, 
you  're  not  a  visitin'  man." 

"No— I  'm  not." 

"We  won't  stop  but  a  moment  and  I  won't 
even  ask  you  to  take  it  in.  I  want  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Chandler  myself,  anyway." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  When  the  car 
stopped  at  the  gate,  Judith  got  out,  trailing 
Miss  Cynthia's  splendour  heedlessly  in  the 
dust. 

Chandler  and   Margery  were  both  on  the 


244 


Ubtowfng 
Down  tbe 
Gauntlet 


porch.  "Am  I  not  the  grand  lady?"  asked 
Judith,  playfully.  "  It 's  Aunt  Cynthia's  coat. 
She  made  me  wear  it.  1 1  's  suffocating  me,  but 
it 's  so  splendid  I  cannot  bear  to  take  it 
off." 

"  You  're  magnificent,"  Chandler  said.  "  I  'm 
ever  so  much  obliged  for  this." 

"It's  beautiful,"  murmured  Margery. 

"  Come  out  with  us  fo.r  a  little  while,  won't 
you,  Margery  ?  We  'd  love  to  have  you." 

"Thank  you,  no,"  the  girl  replied,  hesitating. 

"Go,  dear,"  said  Chandler,  in  Miss  Cynthia's 
words  to  Judith.  "  It  will  do  you  good." 

"Hurry,"  continued  Judith.  "I  promised 
Carter  not  to  keep  him  waiting." 

So  Margery  went  up-stairs  after  her  own 
coat,  and  the  white  hat  with  the  cerise  bow 
upon  it,  over  which  she  tied  the  pink  veil. 
Judith  wore  no  hat — most  likely,  Margery 
thought,  on  account  of  the  wonderful  band  of 
brilliants  she  had  in  her  hair. 

"  Margery 's  coming  with  us  for  a  little 
while,"  Judith  said,  coolly,  as  they  opened  the 
gate.  "She  '11  sit  by  you  and  observe  the 
wonderful  workings  of  the  machinery,  while  I 
sit  back  here  alone  in  my  glory,  and  commune 
with  the  stars." 

Before  anybody  could  say  anything,  the 
arrangement  was  made.  Subtly,  Judith  had 
thrown  down  the  gauntlet  to  Margery,  chal 
lenging  her,  as  it  were,  to  take  from  her  even 


H  Challenge  245 


the  merest  fragment  of  what  was  rightfully 
hers. 

at  last 
Now  and  then,  as  the  car  spun  along,  Judith 

leaned  forward  with  some  light  comment,  or 
with  a  question  which  required  no  answer. 
After  the  days  and  nights  of  pain  she  had  come 
out  at  last  upon  her  rightful  path;  she  had 
regained  her  poise,  never  to  lose  it  again. 

What  was  hers,  rightly,  she  would  not  only 
have  but  she  would  keep.  Chandler  had  said 
that  to  her  many  times.  What  was  not  hers 
she  surely  did  not  want.  She  desired  no 
man's  love  merely  because  there  were  no  other 
women;  she  wanted  it  in  spite  of  them.  The 
truth  had  come  to  her  suddenly,  as  it  often 
does,  after  long  groping  through  devious  ways. 

Carter  had  not  spoken  to  Margery  at  all, 
beyond  the  conventional, "  Good-evening.  How 
are  you  ?"  and  Margery  had  said  nothing  to 
him,  except:  "Very  well,  thank  you.  How 
are  you  ?"  Now  he  said,  in  a  tone  so  low 
that  Judith  did  not  hear:  "Did  you  get  my 
note?" 

Margery's  hand  instinctively  crept  under 
neath  his  arm.  "Yes,"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
how  could  you  ?" 

"How  could  I  what?"  demanded  Carter, 
through  his  clenched  teeth.  The  touch  had 
set  the  blood  to  racing  through  his  body. 

"Write  to  me  like  that.     It  made  me  cry." 

The  temptation  to  take  her  into  his  arms 


246 


B  "deleaver  of  Dreams 


"Cbfnga 
UbatComc 
Uoo  late 


temporarily  unmanned  him.  He  ran  the  car 
furiously  through  the  deep  dust  and  took  a 
turn  so  sharply  that  Margery  screamed  a 
little. 

Judith  leaned  forward.  "Don't  be  fright 
ened,  Margery,"  she  said  kindly.  "Nothing 
is  going  to  happen  to  us  that  is  n't  meant  to 
happen.  You  must  cultivate  poise."  Then 
she  quoted: 

"  Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 

Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea; 
I  rave  no  more  'gainst  Time  or  Fate, 
For  lo!  my  own  shall  come  to  me." 

Carter  turned  back  from  the  wheel.  "Sup 
pose  it  comes  too  late  ?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
He  spoke  to  Judith,  but  the  words  were  for 
Margery — and  both  women  knew  it. 

"The  things  that  come  too  late,"  answered 
Judith,  steadily,  "are  the  things  that  were 
never  meant  for  us  to  have." 

She  leaned  back  among  the  cushions,  with 
a  dull  pain  throbbing  at  her  heart.  Some  iron 
hand  seemed  to  clutch  at  it  mercilessly,  tear 
ing  at  the  tender  fibre.  The  half  light  of  the 
waning  moon,  that  was  sinking  below  the 
hills,  shone  mockingly  upon  the  silver  of  Miss 
Cynthia's  coat.  Had  she  been  clothed  in 
rags,  Judith  could  not  have  been  more  acutely 
miserable. 

Nobody  spoke  again.  Margery's  mere 
presence  had  plunged  Carter  into  a  whirl- 


H  Challenge  247 

wind  of  painful  emotion,  mingled  with  a 
strange  new-born  ecstasy  that  made  him  bite 
his  lips  and  keep  his  eyes  steadfastly  upon 
the  road  ahead. 

The  car  stopped  at  Chandler's  gate.  Mar 
gery  got  out,  unassisted.  "Thank  you  so 
much,"  she  said,  including  both  in  the  re 
mark.  "  1 1  has  been  lovely.  I  've  enjoyed 
it." 

Judith  had  slipped  out,  too.  As  was  nat 
ural,  she  took  the  vacant  place  beside  Carter. 
"Good-night,"  she  called  to  Margery,  with 
a  friendly  wave  of  the  hand.  "We'll  come 
for  you  again  very  soon."  Carter  said  some 
thing  under  his  breath,  but  Judith  did  not  heed 
it.  When  they  were  half-way  home,  he  broke 
the  silence. 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you  something  when  I  first 
came  to-night,"  he  said,  "and  I  'd  forgotten 
it.  I  'm  going  fishing  to-morrow,  with  a  crowd 
of  fellows — up  in  the  North  Woods." 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith,  politely.  "  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  have  a  good  time.  How  long  shall  you 
be  away  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  a  few  days,  per 
haps  a  month.  It  depends  upon  the  fishing. 
Then,  too,  I  '11  be  lonely,  for  I  '11  have  no  way 
of  writing — or  of  getting  letters." 

"  That  will  be  a  relief,  in  a  way." 

"Yes — in  a  way,"  he  muttered. 

The  car  stopped  at   Miss  Cynthia's  gate. 


248 


H  Weaver  ot  Dreams 


(Boots 
•fligbt  ant> 


"I  won't  come  in,"  Carter  said.     "It's    get 
ting  late." 

"Yes,"  Judith  agreed,  "it 's  very  late." 
She  had  slipped  out  of  the  car  and  gone 
around  it.     "Good-night,"  she   said,  as   she 
came  up  beside  him,  "and  good-bye." 

"Good-night,"  he  repeated,  lifting  her  face 
to  his,  "and  good-bye."  Then  he  kissed 
her — but  his  lips  were  cold. 


T 


XVII 

jfarewelte 

HE  rain  Miss  Cynthia  had  wished  for  was 
descending  in  torrents.  Judith  woke, 
from  troubled  slumber,  to  a  wet  and  dreary 
world.  Every  tree  and  shrub  was  dripping  and 
pools  of  water  lay  upon  the  grass.  It  was  not 
a  merry  downpour  such  as  comes  in  April, 
with  the  promise  of  sunshine  even  in  its  grey- 
ness,  but  a  dull,  dead  rain. 

In  the  grey  swirl  of  it,  the  carrier  pigeon, 
wet-winged  and  weary,  alighted  upon  Judith's 
window-sill.  With  eager,  trembling  fingers, 
she  took  the  message  from  him: 

"JUDITH,  DEAR: 

"  I  'm  afraid  my  farewell  last  night  was 
rather  abrupt.  Please  pardon  me — I  have  had 
so  much  to  think  of  lately.  I  shall  miss  you 
constantly,  and  think  of  you  all  the  time. 

"  Yours  always,        C." 

Between  the  lines,  with  aching  heart,  she 
read  an  effort  to  be  absolutely  sincere — to  say 
nothing  that  was  not  true,  and  yet  to  be  kind. 
She  answered,  in  his  own  manner: 


249 


B  IRafnE 
dDotning 


250 


H  Deleaver  of  Dreams 


TObcn  tbe 
flMgcon 
flew 


"Mv  DEAR: 

"  I  did  not  notice  any  abruptness.  I  know, 
of  course,  that  you  have  much  upon  your  mind. 
I  shall  miss  you  also,  and  think  of  you  often, 
always  with  the  hope  that  you  are  having  a 
good  time.  'Thine  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in 
every  place!'  J." 

When  the  pigeon  flew  away,  the  window 
closed  of  its  own  accord — gently,  but  with 
finality.  Judith  sighed  as  she  began  to  dress. 
So  many  doors  that  are  wont  to  open  at  our 
approach  some  day  swing  shut  instead — so 
many  keys,  once  ours  to  command,  fail  all  at 
once  to  fit  the  locks  for  which  they  were  made! 

She  had  not  determined  what  she  must  do — 
save  to  bear  this  sharp,  sickening  pain  that 
stabbed  unceasingly  at  her  heart.  Repeatedly 
she  told  herself  that  she  was  foolish.  Sup 
pose  Carter  had  kissed  Margery — what  of  it  ? 
That,  in  itself,  was  nothing — only  the  cir 
cumstances  made  it  wrong.  She  knew  there 
were  a  hundred  kinds  of  kisses,  of  which  ninety- 
nine  meant  nothing,  but  this — she  shuddered 
at  the  memory  of  it,  for  Carter  had  never 
kissed  her  as  in  the  deadly  instant  of  revela 
tion  she  saw  him  kiss  Margery. 

In  vain  she  reasoned  with  herself.  Through 
sure  feminine  instinct  she  had  felt,  rather  than 
seen,  the  constraint  between  them  the  night 
before.  Like  an  avenging  goddess  she  had 


farewells 

held  herself  aloof.  "  Lead  us  not  into  tempta- 
tion"  was  no  part  of  Judith's  daily  prayer, 
rather  was  it:  "Make  us  strong  enough  to 
face  temptation  without  even  a  thought  of 
yielding." 

Accustomed  as  she  had  been  to  the  admira 
tion  of  men,  Judith  had  not,  as  many  women 
do,  frittered  away  any  part  of  that  treasure 
which  was  herself.  She  had  kept  her  lips 
sacredly  for  the  man  to  whom  they  should 
eventually  belong;  refusing  to  be  blinded  with 
tinsel,  she  had  waited  for  the  gold. 

Most  women  love  love,  rather  than  the  man 
who  gives  it.  Judith  had  loved  Carter,  and, 
in  torture,  loved  him  now.  Not  with  the 
passionate  self-seeking  of  the  women  who  re 
ceive  all  and  give  little  or  nothing  in  return, 
but  with  the  royal  self-abasement  of  women 
who  give  all,  asking  only  for  the  right  to  give, 
and  are  rewarded  with  little  aside  from  a  toler 
ant,  half-amused  acceptance. 

She  had  not  stooped  to  play  the  game  that 
the  woman  who  holds  her  lover  must  play 
whether  she  will  or  no.  Frank,  free,  and  full- 
hearted,  meeting  him  with  a  certain  proud 
equality,  she  gave  as  he  asked.  She  had  not 
affected  astonishment  when  he  told  her  he 
loved  her,  for  she  had  known,  almost  before  he 
knew  it  himself,  nor  had  she  asked  for  time 
in  which  to  decide.  She  had  gone  to  him  at 
once,  straightforwardly,  her  eyes  shining  with 


252 


H  Meaner  ot  Breams 


HrmorB 


a  great  joy,  in  that  exalted  state  "where  there 
is  no  need  of  proposing  and  love  goes  to  meet 
love  with  open  arms." 

Judith's  armory  was  destitute  of  the  usual 
feminine  weapons.  She  scorned  the  small 
concealments,  the  numberless  coquetries,  the 
thousand  arts  and  evasions  of  the  wiser  ones. 
Mystery  and  astonishment  were  not  for  her  to 
deal  with;  she  had  caused  no  wonder  for  Carter, 
except  the  first  ecstatic  amazement  in  which 
he  found  her  his.  To  make  him  doubt  her,  to 
stir  his  jealousy,  to  make  him  wait  until  the 
inmost  soul  of  him  was  sick  with  longing  for 
even  the  touch  of  her  hand — all  these  were 
beneath  her.  She  had  not  yet  learned  that 
woman  loses  by  giving,  wins  by  withholding, 
and  must  hide  her  burning  need  of  love  if  she 
would  have  it  hers  in  fullest  measure. 

In  other  days,  Judith  would  have  gone  to  the 
train  with  him,  heedless  of  the  downpour, 
if  he  had  not  stubbornly  refused  to  let  her 
go.  Once,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  when  he  was 
obliged  to  take  a  train  that  left  at  half-past  six 
in  the  morning,  he  had  risen  at  an  unearthly 
hour,  tramped  through  the  snow  to  Miss 
Cynthia's,  and  had  breakfast  served  to  him  by 
Judith  herself,  under  candlelight,  in  a  desolate 
dining-room  long  before  anyone  else  in  the 
house  was  astir.  Breakfast  at  half-past  five, 
in  the  winter,  is  seldom  a  cheerful  affair,  but 
they  had  made  holiday  of  it,  and  their  indis- 


farewells 


253 


creet  laughter  had  roused  Miss  Cynthia  to 
wonder  for  a  moment  if  Judith  was  never  com 
ing  to  bed,  before  she  turned  over  for  her  last 
nap. 

As  it  happened,  Carter  was  thinking  of  it, 
too,  with  remorseful  tenderness  gnawing  at  his 
heart.  His  fishing-trip  was  a  hastily-con 
ceived  escape  from  a  tormenting  situation. 
More  than  Margery  or  even  Judith,  he  needed 
to  get  away  into  that  blessed  solitude  where 
adjustments  are  made  and  perspectives 
gradually  appear  in  the  all-encompassing 
fog. 

He  saw  the  right  way  plainly  before  him, 
but  it  did  not  allure — indeed,  the  right  way 
seldom  does,  for  it  is  not  often  the  easiest. 
"  I  '11  go  away  and  get  myself  pulled  together  a 
bit,"  he  thought,  "then  I  '11  march  straight 
ahead,  as  any  decent  man  would.  I  've  got  to," 
he  added  sternly  to  himself. 

Clad  simply  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  he 
leaned  over  the  narrow  stairway  at  six  o'clock 
and  called:  "Aunt  Belinda!" 

"Merciful  goodness!"  she  cried,  running 
into  the  hall  as  fast  as  her  old  feet  would  carry 
her.  "Are  you  sick  ?"  Usually  it  required 
prolonged  effort  to  induce  Carter  to  rise  at 
seven. 

"No — come  up  here,  will  you  please  ?" 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  queried,  breathlessly. 
"What 's  wrong  ?" 


254 


H  TKHeaver  of  2>reams 


"Nothing,  only  I  'm  going  away,  and  I  've 
got  to  hurry.  Get  my  suit-case,  will  you  ?" 

"Where  is  it  ?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  he  returned,  good- 
humouredly.  He  began  to  shave  before  the 
chiffonier,  by  the  aid  of  the  lamp  with  a 
reflector  behind  it,  to  the  unfailing  terror, 
as  always,  of  the  feminine  witness.  Uncle 
Henry's  full  beard,  trimmed  at  regular  har 
vesting  intervals,  was  a  hirsute  monument,  as 
it  were,  to  Aunt  Belinda's  fear  of  razors. 

"Mr.  Keith,"  she  said,  timidly,  "won't  you 
cut  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  won't  if  you  don't  make  me  laugh,  or 
disturb  me  in  any  other  way.  I  'm  going  fish 
ing  and  I  '11  have  to  ask  you  to  pack  my  things. 
When  you  've  found  one  suit-case,  get  the 
other.  I  '11  need  two.  Take  the  new  one  for 
civilised  clothes  and  the  old  one  for  un 
civilised." 

"What's  that?  What  do  you  mean?" 
Flushed  and  excited,  she  emerged  from  the 
depths  of  the  closet,  with  a  dusty  suit-case  in 
either  hand. 

"Never  mind.  We'll  pack  the  uncivilised 
one  first.  That 's  the  most  important.  Civil 
isation  is  only  a  veneer  laid  thinly  upon  prime 
val  instincts.  Four  suits  of  underwear  first, 
two  heavy  and  two  light — that 's  it;  two  flan 
nel  shirts,  my  sweater,  those  brown  corduroy 
trousers,  my  hunting  boots — 


Farewells  255 

"  How  're  you  going  to  get  those  boots  in  ?" 

"They've  got  to  go  in — consequently  they 
do.  Could  anything  be  more  simple  ?  Pa 
jamas — no,  not  the  silk  ones, — half  a  dozen 
pairs  of  socks,  three  or  four  negligee  shirts,  my 
cigar  case,  my  mackintosh " 

"Mr.  Keith,  you'll  have  to  take  a  trunk." 

"Trunk!  What  for?"  He  turned  to  sur 
vey  Aunt  Belinda  with  simple  masculine 
curiosity.  "  I  won't  be  gone  more  than  a 
month  at  the  outside.  What  do  I  need  of  a 
trunk  ? 

"  Put  in  that  book  on  dogs,  and  the  one  on 
pigeons,  all  the  clean  handkerchiefs  I  've  got, 
three  or  four  shirts — I  '11  pick  out  my  own  col 
lars  and  ties — here  's  my  belt  and  slippers — 
and  the  cold  cream  for  sunburn,  and  my 
smoked  glasses.  Now,  as  I  dress,  I  '11  throw 
things  to  you  as  I  use  'em  and  you  can  put  'em 
in — I  don't  care  where  you  put  'em  just  so 
you  get  'em  in." 

A  fusillade  of  brushes  and  other  toilet  articles 
assailed  Aunt  Belinda,  who  bent  over  the  two 
overflowing  suit-cases  upon  the  bed.  A  tube 
of  tooth-paste,  aimed  with  less  precision,  struck 
her  on  the  forehead,  but  such  small  things  do 
not  matter  when  a  man  is  packing. 

"Ask  Uncle  Henry  to  get  my  fishing  tackle 
together,  will  you  ?" 

"  I  can't — he  's  asleep." 

"Wake  him  up,  then." 


256 


H  Meaner  of  Dreams 


ttbe 
Sweet 
Jface 


"He  ain't  to  be  woke  up  in  such  time  as 
there  is  between  now  and  the  eight-seventeen. 
Leastways  not  by  me." 

"Then  you  get  it.  I  '11  take  a  look  around 
and  see  if  there  's  anything  else  I  want." 

Hurriedly  he  opened  one  drawer  after  an 
other,  leaving  them  open,  quite  naturally,  and 
casting  an  occasional  small  article  at  Aunt 
Belinda  with  his  free  hand.  Having  thor 
oughly  ransacked  his  closet  and  chiffonier,  he 
went  to  his  desk,  took  out  the  packet  of 
Judith's  letters  and  the  framed  photograph 
of  her,  taken  soon  after  their  engagement. 
Judith  had  one  of  him  upon  her  desk,  also. 
Only  those  two  prints  had  been  made — the 
plates  having  been  destroyed  at  once. 

The  room  looked  as  if  a  young  whirlwind  had 
passed  through  it,  in  eager  obedience  to  the 
dictates  of  Absolute  Mind  concentrated  upon 
a  single  object,  but  Carter  stood  calmly  in 
the  midst  of  the  confusion  with  the  picture  in 
his  hand.  Aunt  Belinda  asked  twice  if  there 
was  anything  else  she  could  do  for  him,  but 
he  did  not  hear,  so  she  went  out,  unnoticed, 
and  down  into  the  kitchen  to  prepare  a  hasty 
breakfast. 

Out  from  the  frame  of  beaten  copper,  the 
sweet  face,  done  in  sepia,  looked  up  at  Carter 
with  the  merest  suggestion  of  a  smile.  The 
dreamy  eyes  were  alight  with  love — for  he  had 
been  standing  by  the  man  who  took  the  pic- 


ffarewells 


257 


ture.  With  a  pang  at  his  heart,  he  remembered 
how  she  had  stood  there  looking  at  him,  and 
not  at  the  camera.  She  had  done  her  hair 
simply,  so  that  it  might  never  go  out  of  fashion, 
and,  for  the  same  reason,  had  caught  a  chiffon 
scarf  around  her  bare  shoulders,  fastening  it  in 
front  with  a  rose  that  he  had  given  her. 

The  rose  had  died  long  ago — its  petals  must 
have  crumbled  into  the  dust  from  which,  by 
a  heavenly  miracle,  they  had  sprung.  But 
the  light  in  Judith's  eyes — had  that  died  too  ? 
Less  than  a  week  ago,  he  had  seen  it  there,  but 
in  seven  days,  or  even  an  hour,  a  world  may 
be  made — or  lost. 

The  few  letters  were  all  that  she  had  ever 
written  to  him.  With  a  lover's  foreknowledge 
he  had  preserved  even  her  first  formal  note, 
asking  him  to  come  to  dinner.  The  next,  less 
conventional  in  tone,  thanked  him  for  flowers 
— and  asked  him  to  come  to  Sunday  night  tea. 
Two  more  were  long  friendly  letters,  full  of  the 
charm  of  her  personality,  written  to  him  dur 
ing  a  week's  absence  of  her  own. 

The  next  was  Judith's  first  love  letter, 
though  Carter  did  not  know  it.  The  day  fol 
lowing  their  engagement  she  had  written  to 
him,  from  a  full  heart,  and  shyly,  as  Mrs. 
Browning  took  to  her  lover-husband  the 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  had  slipped  it 
into  his  pocket  that  evening  and  asked  him 
not  to  read  it  until  he  was  alone. 


love 

letters 


258 


H  Meaver  of  H>reams 


Influence 


Much  later,  in  his  room,  Carter  had  read  it, 
over  and  over  again.  It  was  less  a  letter  than 
a  revelation  of  the  woman's  inmost  soul. 
Laying  bare  her  deepest  longings,  her  secret 
aspirations,  her  lifelong  hunger,  and  her  im 
passioned  prayers,  Judith  had  opened  the  door 
of  her  sanctuary  and  bade  him  enter  in.  And 
reverently,  as  one  who  falters  upon  the  thresh 
old  of  a  holy  place,  Carter  had  understood, 
crushing  the  letter  to  his  lips  in  an  ecstasy  of 
devotion  that  had  lifted  him  at  once  to  the 
heights. 

Clean  as  he  was,  it  shamed  him  that  he  had 
not  been  cleaner;  fine  as  he  knew  himself  to  be, 
he  longed  to  be  finer  still.  Every  righteous  im 
pulse  in  his  nature  had  asserted  itself,  then 
merged  into  an  overwhelming  flood  of  loyalty 
and  love.  When  he  had  faltered,  Judith  had 
sustained  him.  When  he  had  failed,  she  had 
given  him  fresh  courage,  bidding  him  take 
heart  again.  Her  serene  eyes  saw  him  always, 
not  as  the  man  he  was,  but  as  the  man  he 
might  be;  star-like,  her  love  had  led  him  on, 
eagerly  striving  to  make  the  best  of  him 
self. 

In  the  evening,  when  he  left  her,  it  was  al 
ways  in  an  uplifted  mood.  Purged  of  its 
thousand  annoyances,  the  day  had  left  him 
at  peace,  and  eager  for  the  morrow.  Knowing 
that  life  is  a  struggle  and  that  the  best  of  us 
would  not  have  it  otherwise,  Judith  sent  him 


259 


out  to  meet  his  fellows,  already  flushed  with 

last 

the  victory  he  was  to  win  for  her. 

Steadily  she  had  filled  his  soul  with  purpose 
and  with  aspiration.  When  choice  of  two 
ways  lay  before  him,  she  had  asked  him  only 
to  find  the  right  way,  and  had  taken  the  rest 
for  granted.  Nor  had  he  failed  her  until 
something  infinitely  stronger  than  himself  had 
taken  him  by  the  throat  and  made  him  crush 
Margery  to  him  in  that  passionate  embrace. 

Carter  swallowed  the  lump  that  rose  in  his 
throat.  He  put  Judith's  letters  into  one 
pocket  and  her  picture  into  another.  "It'll 
come  back,"  he  said  to  himself,  savagely,  as 
he  closed  the  desk  with  a  bang.  "  It 's  got  to 
come  back!" 

He  bolted  the  breakfast  Aunt  Belinda  had 
prepared  for  him,  at  a  rate  that  made  her 
anxious,  accustomed  though  she  was  to  his 
method  of  absorbing  his  morning  nourish 
ment.  Once  she  had  asked  him,  hesitatingly, 
what  he  supposed  his  teeth  were  given  to  him 
for,  and  Carter  had  returned,  on  his  way  to 
ward  the  chair  where  he  had  left  his  hat,  that 
they  were  intended  to  make  him  look  pretty 
and  attractive  when  he  smiled. 

"Now  then — two  suit-cases,  overcoat,  fish 
ing  rod,  and  box  of  tackle — I  guess  that 's  all. 
Get  my  cap,  will  you  ?  I  can  stuff  it  into  this 
pocket.  Yes,  that 's  it,  thanks.  Good-bye, 
Aunt  Belinda.  Say  good-bye  to  Uncle  Henry 


26o 


H  Meaver  of  Dreams 


TOlbat  '0 
•dp  7 


for  me,  will  you  ?  I  '11  have  to  run  if  I  catch 
that  eight-seventeen." 

He  stooped  to  kiss  her  wrinkled  cheek  in 
filial  fashion  and  was  out  of  the  house  before 
she  could  reply.  With  a  long  breath  of  re 
lief,  she  dropped  into  a  rocking  chair  and 
wiped  her  face  upon  her  apron.  "  Land  sakes !" 
she  said  to  herself.  "  If  that  boy  ain't  the 
beatenest!  I  dunno  after  all  as  I  'm  so  sorry 
he  ain't  mine." 

Uncle  Henry  came  out  of  the  bedroom,  rub 
bing  his  eyes.  He  was  fully  dressed,  even  to 
the  coat  and  collar  upon  which  his  mate 
firmly  insisted.  "Folks  as  is  able  to  sit  up," 
she  had  always  said,  "is  able  to  be  dressed. 
And  folks  as  can't  dress  themselves  ought  to 
stay  in  bed  and  have  their  meals  brought  to 
'em.  A  man  what 's  too  weak  to  put  on  a 
collar  is  a  terrible  sick  man  and  orter  have  the 
doctor." 

The  air  was  still  stirred  by  departure.  Uncle 
Henry  was  not  even  mildly  psychic,  but  his 
senses  vibrated  to  the  unusual.  "  What 's  up  ? " 
he  demanded.  "What 's  happened  ?" 

"  He  's  went,"  Aunt  Belinda  returned,  wip 
ing  her  face  again.  "  He  was  took  sudden  to 
go  away." 

"Where  's  he  gone  ?" 

"I  dunno.  I  reckon  he  don't  know  him 
self.  He  said  he  was  goin'  fishin'." 

"Wonder  if  he'll  catch  anything."     Uncle 


tfarewells 

Henry  drew  his  chair  up  to  the  disordered  table 
and  reached  for  the  coffee-pot. 

"  I  '11  warm  that  up  for  you,  Henry.  Fishin' 
ain't  catchin' — it 's  just  settin'  in  a  boat  and 
holdin'  the  pole  and  hopin'." 

"I  know,"  the  old  man  said  meditatively, 
"  but  he  might  catch  somethin'." 

"A  cold  most  likely,  or  mosquito  bites,  and  a 
raw  neck  from  sunburn.  I  ain't  never  knowed 
him  to  get  anything  else." 

"What  did  he  go  for?" 

"Just  took  with  a  wanderin'  fit.  Men  has 
'em." 

"Unless  they're  married.  Married  men 
ain't  allowed  to  do  no  wanderin'." 

"Ain't  they  ?  Seems  to  me  that  they  do  a 
pile  of  it.  You  was  down  to  the  store  yester 
day,  expectin'  to  be  back  in  an  hour,  and  you 
was  gone  all  the  afternoon.  I  had  to  feed  the 
chickens  myself." 

Uncle  Henry  affected  not  to  hear.  He  de 
voted  himself  to  his  breakfast  and  tactfully 
praised  the  cooking.  "  I  ain't  never  seen  your 
beat  at  an  omelet,  Belinda.  And  these  fried 
potatoes!  My!" 

"  I  reckon  he  '11  come  back  with  his  neck 
sore,"  she  resumed,  clearing  her  throat,  "like 
he  did  one  time  before.  Do  you  remember 
how  I  was  settin'  up  half  the  night  with  him 
puttin'  fresh  cream  on  it  ?  We  did  n't  have 
no  butter  that  week,  and  hardly  none  for  the 


261 


H  Ida 
tiering  jfit 


262 


Weaver  of  Breams 


coffee.  I  told  him  he  ought  to  save  some  for 
his  coffee  and  he  said  he  'd  rather  have  the 
cream  on  the  outside  of  his  neck  when 
it  was  sore  than  inside.  My,  -«how  he  did 
peel!" 

"When  's  he  comin'  back  ?" 

"  I  dunno.  He  said  he  'd  let  us  know. 
He  '11  send  me  one  of  them  souverine  post-cards 
from  somewhere,  I  suppose,  tellin'  me  when 
he  's  comin'  and  what  he  wants  for  supper." 

Uncle  Henry's  gentle  old  face  brightened  at 
the  talismanic  word.  "What  are  you  layin' 
out  to  have  for  supper,  Mother  ?" 

"  I  ain't  thought  about  it  yet.  You  can  have 
anything  you  like,  now  he 's  gone." 

"Liver  and  onions,"  he  mused,  "with  brown 
gravy,  and  plenty  of  boiled  potatoes,  and  hot 
biscuits  and  honey,  and  mebbe  a  few  strips 
of  bacon  and " 

The  remainder  of  the  sentence  died  away  in 
the  rattle  of  a  stove  lid  and  the  scraping  of  the 
frying-pan.  "That'll  be  about  all,  Henry, 
unless  you  want  to  be  sick.  I  hope  he  '11 
have  a  ood  time.  If  he  ain't  missed  the 
train,  he  's  started  to  have  it  by  now." 

Carter  had  made  his  train  by  a  margin  so 
narrow  as  to  be  uncomfortable,  the  cinders 
from  the  departing  engine  having  fallen  upon 
his  outspread  coat-tails  as  he  ascended  to  the 
rear  platform  of  the  last  coach  in  one  supreme 
effort.  He  was  not,  however,  having  the 


263 


"good  time"  Aunt  Belinda  unselfishly  wished    carter's 
him  to  have. 

He  dismissed  his  stenographer  for  an  unex 
pected  holiday,  after  dictating  the  form  of  the 
letter  which  was  to  be  sent  in  answer  to  all 
mail,  looked  up  a  time-table,  sent  a  boy  for  a 
ticket,  postponed  a  few  important  engage 
ments  by  telephone,  and  locked  the  office  door 
on  the  inside. 

In  his  earnest  effort  to  be  fair  to  Judith,  he 
had  forgotten  that  he  owed  Margery  at  least 
the  truth.  She  had  told  him  that  his  note 
made  her  cry — Chandler  had  told  him  so, 
too,  but  in  the  stress  of  the  hour,  he  had  for 
gotten  it. 

Now,  on  his  own  letter-head,  he  wrote  to 
Margery: 

"DEAR — MY  DEAR: 

"You  and  I  must  never  see  each  other 
again,  for  I  cannot  bear  it.  There  are  some 
things  a  man  cannot  endure,  even  at  the  price  of 
his  self-respect.  If  I  should  see  you  again,  any 
where  and  under  any  circumstances,  I  should 
take  you  into  my  arms  and  tell  you  that  I 
loved  you  better  than  everything  else  on  earth 
— more  than  any  man  has  ever  yet  loved  any 
woman. 

"In  the  note  I  sent  you  the  other  day,  I 
said  I  was  sorry  that  I  kissed  you — but  I 
lied.  I  'm  not  sorry,  nor  shall  I  ever  be,  for 


264 


H  "Cdeaver  of  Dreams 


Ho 
flDargerv 


that  one  dear  moment  is  the  sweetest  thing 
life  has  ever  brought  me,  and,  beyond  it,  I 
ask  for  nothing  more. 

"You  will  think,  perhaps,  that  I  have  no 
right  to  say  this  to  you,  but  why  not,  as  long 
as  it  is  the  truth  and  for  the  last  time  ?  You 
know  all  that  she  is,  and  how  fine  she  is;  you 
know,  too,  that  she  must  not  be  hurt,  that 
every  spark  of  manhood  I  have  in  me  urges 
me  to  keep  faith  with  her,  and  never  let  her 
suspect  for  an  instant  that  I  have  changed. 

"No,  that  isn't  right — for  I  haven't 
changed.  The  feeling  I  had  is  exactly  the 
same,  except  as  it  is  overshadowed  by  this. 

"  I  've  tormented  myself  a  thousand  times 
by  wondering  whether  you  care,  too,  but  that 
I  must  not  ask,  for  I  have  no  right  to  know. 
I  hope — that  is,  the  better  part  of  me  hopes— 
that  you  do  not. 

"You  must  not  answer  this.  I  am  going 
away  until  I  get  absolute  control  of  myself,  and 
this  madness — if  it  is  madness — is  forgotten. 
That  is  what  we  must  do — forget. 

"If  I  have  done  wrong  to  write  this,  I 
humbly  ask  your  pardon — and  hers,  too.  I 
owe  her  my  best  and  always  shall. 

"Good-bye,  Margery,  darling — oh,  my  dear 
little  love,  good-bye!  May  God  bless  you! 

"C." 

When  he  dropped  it  into  the  letter-chute,  it 


Farewells 


265 


was  with  the  feeling  that,  with  his  own  hands, 
he  had  buried  something  very  sweet  and  pre 
cious  while  it  was  still  alive.  He  had  thought 
that  to  tell  Margery  the  whole  truth  would  be 
a  relief  to  him,  but  it  was  not.  Instead,  he 
spent  a  wakeful  miserable  night,  and  many 
of  the  following  nights,  in  wondering  whether 
Margery  cared. 


•no  Kelief 


266 


©loomg 


A 


XVIII 

Hbe  Hsbes  of  Desire 

T  the  fourth  day  of  cloud  and  mist,  broken 
only  by  intermittent  showers,  Miss 
Cynthia's  drooping  spirits  took  a  final  plunge 
into  the  depths  of  melancholy.  Subtly  but 
certainly  Judith's  wretchedness  had  reacted 
upon  her,  though  the  younger  woman  con 
sistently  endeavoured  to  be  cheerful. 

"Don't  try  so  hard  to  be  pleasant,  Judith," 
said  Miss  Cynthia,  fretfully.  "You  annoy 
me.  Why  not  be  miserable  ?" 

"All  right,"  Judith  returned  gloomily,  "if 
you  prefer  it." 

"  I  don't,  but  I  'm  not  going  to  strain  my 
self  trying  to  be  unnatural." 

"  You  said  the  garden  needed  rain,"  Judith 
went  on.  She  was  standing  at  the  window  of 
the  upstairs  sitting-room,  looking  out  into 
the  sodden  dreariness.  Every  morning  the 
carrier  pigeon  came  to  her  window  —  without  a 
message.  Finding  herself  unable  to  bear  it, 
she  had  begun  seriously  to  consider  moving  to  a 
back  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

"Rain,  yes,  but  not  a  cloudburst.     I  sup- 


267 

pose  you  're  not  going  to  swim  up  to  Chandler's 

i      -) » 
to-day  ? 

"No — he  '11  hardly  expect  me — that  is,  they 
won't  be  surprised  if  I  don't  come." 

The  old  lady's  keen  ears  caught  the  change 
of  tone  and  the  effort  that  lay  behind  the  words. 
"Worse  than  I  thought,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"What  can  he  have  been  doing  ?" 

Pensively,  Judith  stood  at  the  v/indow.  The 
life  was  gone  from  her  face,  the  youth  from  her 
figure.  Within  a  week  she  had  grown  old, 
since  joy  and  youth  are  one  and  the  same. 
Frankly  despondent  herself,  Miss  Cynthia 
unselfishly  determined  to  rescue  Judith. 

"Why  despair?"  she  asked  lightly.  "You 
have  everything." 

Judith  turned  suddenly.  "  Yes,"  she  flashed 
back,  bitterly,  "everything  but  the  one  su 
preme  thing  I  want." 

In  other  days  Miss  Cynthia  would  have  said 
teasingly:  "But  he's  coming  back,  dear — 
he  is  n't  lost."  Now  she  sighed  and  made  no 
answer. 

Unutterable  loneliness  and  heart-hunger 
brought  tears  to  Judith's  eyes.  Fearing  that 
she  had  betrayed  herself,  she  added,  brok 
enly:  "I  want  my  mother." 

"How  true  it  is  that  we  never  grow  up," 
Miss  Cynthia  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "Age 
does  n't  go  by  the  calendar  at  all.  Some 
times  I  'm  sixty,  and  then,  within  an  hour  or 


268 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Outgrown 

Emotions 


so,  I  'm  six  again,  and  wanting  to  play  with 
dolls.  I  have  them  all  somewhere  yet,  put 
away  with  my  other  outgrown  emotions." 

Pitifully  Judith's  eyes  sought  Miss  Cynthia's 
face.  "Do  we  outgrow  our  emotions  ?"  she 
asked,  pleadingly.  "  How  long  does  it  take  ?" 

"Of  course — why  not  ?  We  cast  aside 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  have  served  their 
purpose,  just  as  the  tiny  creatures  of  the  sea 
cast  off  their  shells.  When  things  hurt  us, 
we  're  merely  on  our  way  to  another  spiritual 
environment." 

Judith's  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  I  've  often  thought  that  it  must  hurt  the 
little  beast  to  get  out  of  his  shell,"  Miss  Cyn 
thia  resumed.  Without  seeming  to,  she  was 
watching  Judith  closely.  "Sometimes  they 
die  when  they  're  only  half-way  out,  as  I 
suppose  we  do.  Anyway  we  're  continually 
making  new  surroundings  for  ourselves,  out 
growing  them,  and,  with  the  inevitable  ac 
companiment  of  pain,  going  on  to  the  next. 
Birth  and  death  are  only  relative  terms — we're 
for  ever  dying  and  for  ever  being  born  again. 
If  the  elements  of  our  bodies  are  subject  to 
daily — even  hourly — renewal,  why  not  our 
minds  and  souls  ?" 

"You  talk  like  Mr.  Chandler,"  commented 
Judith. 

Miss  Cynthia  bowed.  "I  don't  know  just 
how  you  mean  that,  but  I  choose  to  accept 


ZTbe  Hsbes  of  H>esire 


269 


it  as  a  compliment,  that  being  the  more  pleas 
ant  interpretation.  Is  it  still  raining  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Miss  Cynthia  tinkled  her  silver  bell  sharply, 
and  in  a  moment  had  the  entire  establish 
ment  buzzing  with  life.  It  was  not  cold,  but 
she  ordered  fire  to  be  made  in  the  big  fire 
place  that  yawned  cavernously  at  the  end  of 
the  room.  A  rumbling  and  scraping  over 
head  jarred  bits  of  plaster  from  the  ceiling. 
Judith  turned  away  from  the  window. 

"Might  I  ask- 

"  Fire,  merely,"  returned  Miss  Cynthia  with 
a  pretty  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "And 
trunks.  I  'm  in  a  Greek  mood  to-day." 

"Greek?" 

"Attic.  The  original  apostles  of  high  think 
ing.  Get  it  ?" 

"  Rather  subtle,"  answered  Judith,  smother 
ing  a  yawn,  "but  not  altogether  beyond  me." 

"Would  you  mind  getting  my  hat  and  my 
opera  coat  ?" 

"What  for?"  she  asked,  without  interest, 
as  she  returned  with  the  desired  articles. 

"  I  want  to  wear  'em.  I  fain  would  have  the 
emotions  of  travel  with  neither  the  discomfort 
nor  the  expense.  Now,  then.  We  're  on  an 
ocean  liner  that,  for  some  reason,  has  merci 
fully  failed  to  go.  Maybe  we  're  in  quaran 
tine,  but,  anyhow,  we  're  not  sea-sick.  It 's 
nasty  outside  and  time  hangs  heavily  upon  our 


Un  a  ©reef! 


270 


a  Weaver  ot  Breams 


IT  wo 
Urtmfcs 


hands.  I  believe  that 's  the  usual  phrase. 
It  is  a  good  time  to  rearrange  our  baggage, 
both  material  and  immaterial." 

With  the  large,  white,  plumed  hat  perched 
jauntily  upon  her  silvered  hair,  and  the  festive 
opera  coat  thrown  over  the  back  of  her  chair, 
Miss  Cynthia  commanded  the  larger  of  two 
trunks  to  be  placed  in  front  of  her,  and  sent 
Judith  after  her  bunch  of  keys.  The  dancing 
firelight  brought  gleams  from  the  buckle  of  bril 
liants,  hitherto  dead  and  dull  in  the  dampness 
and  gloom. 

"  Draw  the  curtains,  please,  Judith,  and 
light  every  lamp  and  candle  in  the  room. 
Bring  in  the  candles  from  my  dresser  and  from 
yours.  We  '11  make  a  gay  night  out  of  a  dark 
day  yet." 

Miss  Cynthia. tried  one  key  after  another  be 
fore  she  chanced  upon  the  right  one.  "Like 
everything  else,"  she  observed,  "it 's  a  ques 
tion  of  the  proper  approach.  All  things  belong 
to  the  one  who  knows  how  to  unlock  'em." 

"  You  speak  in  parables,  Wise  Lady." 

"Wise  ladies  usually  do.  Men  also.  This 
is  the  lady  trunk.  All  sentimental  relics  as 
sociated  with  ladies  are  in  here.  The  gentle 
man  trunk  must  wait  in  the  hall,  according  to 
the  strict  rules  of  propriety." 

"This  is  the  larger  trunk,"  said  Judith. 
Gradually  she  was  forgetting  her  unhappy 
mood,  ' 


Ube  Hsbes  of  desire 


271 


"Naturally.  A  woman's  trunk  is  always 
larger  than  a  man's  trunk,  is  n't  it,  unless  the 
man  happens  to  be  travelling  for  a  milli 
nery  house  and  the  season  runs  to  large 
hats  ?" 

The  rusty  hinges  creaked  and  the  lid  of  the 
trunk  slowly  yielded  to  Miss  Cynthia's  vigor 
ous  push.  A  faint,  musty  fragrance,  as  of 
long-dead  roses,  filled  the  room.  The  old 
lady  sneezed.  "My  word,"  she  said,  "how 
the  past  can  annoy  you,  even  though  it 's 
innocent! 

"  I  have  n't  looked  these  things  over  for 
years,"  she  continued.  "Every  time  I  do 
it,  I  get  rid  of  a  few  of  them.  By  the  time  we 
get  to  the  Little  Door  between  the  arc  of  our 
mortal  life  and  the  rest  of  the  circle,  there 
is  n't  much  that  we  desire  to  have  buried — or 
cremated — with  us,  as  the  case  may  be. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  poet's  wife  who  had 
to  be  disturbed  after  she  was  peacefully  set 
tled  in  her  grave  because  he  had  buried  poems 
with  her  which  he  afterward  wanted  to  pub 
lish  ?  I  never  want  anything  buried  with  me 
that  anybody  else  is  likely  to  want." 

"  You  're  cheerful,  Aunt  Cynthia." 

"  It 's  a  cheerful  day  and  this  is  a  merry  oc 
cupation.  My  gracious,  will  you  look  at  the 
moths  ?  That  means  that  this  little  white 
flannel  coat  of  mine  will  have  to  be  put  into 
the  fire.  My  mother  embroidered  it  before 


Ubings  of 
tbe  past 


2  72 


a  Weaver  of  Breams 


tdbere 
Does  ft 
Goto? 


I  was  born,  and  I  wore  it  the  first  time  I  was 
taken  out. 

"Your  mother  wore  it  too.  Being  only  two 
years  younger  than  I,  it  descended  to  her 
through  the  natural  law  of  gravitation.  We 
were  inseparable,  until  she  fell  in  love  with  an 
Englishman  and  started  out  on  the  path  of 
terror  and  of  joy." 

Miss  Cynthia  fell  to  dreaming,  with  the 
tiny  garment  in  her  lap  contrasting  oddly  with 
her  splendour.  She  was  so  pretty  as  she 
sat  there,  with  candlelight  and  firelight  glow 
ing  upon  her,  that  Judith  forbore  to  break 
the  spell.  She  suggested  the  scene  in  the  first 
act  of  Becky  Sharp,  where  that  clever  young 
woman,  upon  spying  the  dancing  costume  and 
her  open  trunk,  brings  tears  from  those  who 
had  previously  condemned  her. 

"Judith!"  she  cried,  suddenly,  "where  does 
it  all  go  to?" 

"Where  does  what  go,  dear  ?" 

"All  the  love  and  the  tenderness  and  every 
thing  else!  Where  are  the  dreams  that  went 
in  with  these  tiny  stitches;  where  has  the 
lovelight  gone  from  my  mother's  eyes  ? 
Here 's  this  futile,  meaningless  coat,  moth- 
eaten,  but  still  able  to  fulfil  its  original  purpose, 
and  I,  outgrown  it  these  fifty  years,  almost, 
and  you,  who  were  not  to  be  here  for  almost 
twenty-five  years  after  this  was  made — where 
has  the  rest  of  it  gone,  Judith  ?  Where  is  it  ?" 


Hsbes  of  Desire 


273 


"That's  the  riddle  of  eternity,  Aunt  Cyn 
thia.  The  solution  lies  farther  out  upon  the 
circle,  past  the  Little  Door  that  you  spoke 
of  some  time  ago." 

Miss  Cynthia  wiped  away  the  suspicion  of  a 
tear.  "Here,"  she  said  sharply,  "put  this 
into  the  fire.  I  have  n't  outgrown  the  emo 
tion,  but  it 's  got  moths  in  it. 

"Oh!"  She  put  her  dimpled  hand  to  her 
nose  when  Judith  did  as  she  had  requested. 
"Will  you  open  the  windows,  please?  The 
violent  death  of  that  particular  emotion,  if  I 
may  so  phrase  it,  is  odorous.  Does  it  smell 
to  you  like  murder  or  suicide  ?" 

"Being  familiar  with  neither  I  can't  say," 
Judith  laughed.  "No,  it 's  all  right,"  she  con 
tinued  to  an  anxious  maid  who  appeared  in 
the  doorway.  "We're  merely  burning  some 
old  things  in  the  fireplace." 

"This  is  your  mother's  wedding-gown," 
Miss  Cynthia  was  saying.  "  I  kept  it,  after 
she  died,  having  none  of  my  own.  It  belongs 
to  you,  really." 

A  sharp  pang  stabbed  Judith  to  the  heart. 
What  of  her  own  wedding-gown  ?  "  I  '11  take 
it,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips.  "  I  '11  put 
it  away  with  my  own  things."  She  slipped  in 
to  the  shelter  of  her  room,  opened  the  drawer 
which  held  only  the  carefully  pressed  length  of 
embroidered  linen,  covered  with  tissue  paper, 
and  laid  her  dead  mother's  faded  finery  over 


u 


Gown 


274 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


Bn 

Butograpb 
Blbum 


it.  Pinned  to  the  back  of  the  bridal  gown  was 
a  wonderful  veil  of  lace,  deepened  to  the  colour 
of  old  ivory  and  with  a  bit  of  the  wreath  of 
artificial  orange  blossoms  still  clinging  to  it. 

Tears  fell  upon  it  before  Judith  closed  the 
drawer,  catching  her  finger  in  the  crack  as  she 
did  so,  and  diverting  her  by  real  pain  of  an 
other  sort,  though  considerably  less  acute. 
When  she  went  back,  she  had  her  finger  in  her 
mouth. 

"  Good  idea, "  approved  Miss  Cynthia. 
"  Sometimes  I  think  there  'd  be  less  trouble  in 
the  world  if  people  kept  a  finger  or  two  in 
their  mouths  all  the  time.  Conversation  is  a 
real  pleasure,  but  it  does  keep  things  stirred 
up. 

"Here's  my  autograph  album."  The 
startling  blue  and  gold  of  the  cover  had 
faded  to  a  neutral  tint  which  did  not  assail  the 
vision.  "  I  've  looked  all  through  it  and  dis 
covered  that  I  've  forgotten  everybody  who  has 
written  in  it  except  the  teacher,  and  I  remem 
ber  her  most  unpleasantly  on  account  of  a 
habit  she  had  of  keeping  me  after  school  to 
make  personal  remarks  in  regard  to  my  con 
duct.  Lay  it  on  the  fire,  Judith,  and  this 
diploma,  too — I  don't  know  that  I  need  to  be 
reminded  that  I  've  left  school." 

"  Do  any  of  us  ever  leave  it  ?"  Judith  asked, 
as  the  sacrificial  flames  brightened  the  room. 

"Yes,  dear.    After  we  leave  school,  post- 


275 

graduate  courses  confront  us.  Having  learned 
about  the  dead,  we  begin  to  study  the  living  at 
close  range.  I  've  often  wondered  why  they 
did  n't  teach  the  art  of  life  in  the  schools  and 
leave  history  and  the  dead  languages  to  the 
peace  and  quiet  of  our  declining  years. 

"Put  this  school-bag  on  the  funeral-pyre, 
dear,  and  this  pin-cushion.  Wonder  who  gave 
it  to  me  ?  Here  's  the  pink  gown  I  wore  to 
my  first  dance.  Put  that  in,  too — the  silk  is 
in  tatters  and  I  shall  never  dance  again. 
Ah  me!" 

She  peered  into  the  depths  of  the  trunk,  and 
brought  out  a  few  old  books.  "Put  these  in 
the  bookcase,  dear — I  don't  know  why  I  've 
had  them  here  so  long.  There  does  n't  seem 
to  be  much  left  but  my  own  baby-clothes. 
Look,  Judith.  Can  you  imagine  that  I  ever 
wore  that  ?" 

As  she  spoke  she  held  up  a  tiny  white  gar 
ment,  simply  but  exquisitely  made,  yellowed 
deeply  by  the  cassing  years.  Judith  bit -her 
lips  and  turned  away.  "Scarcely,"  she  an 
swered,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  inaudible. 

"Fool  that  I  am,"  thought  Miss  Cynthia, 
closing  the  trunk  with  a  bang.  "Will  you 
ask  them  to  take  this  out  in  the  hall  and  bring 
in  the  gentleman  trunk  ?  Where 's  the  key  to 
it  ?  It 's  this  flat  one,  I  guess — there!" 

Letters,  dance-programmes,  a  broken  fan, 
and  worn  sheets  of  music  seemed  to  comprise 


276 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


the  contents  of  the  "gentleman  trunk."  Miss 
Cynthia  sorted  out  the  dance  programmes  and 
requested  Judith  to  burn  them.  She  hesitated 
over  a  carved  sandalwood  box,  filled  with  the 
dust  of  crumbled  rose-leaves.  "He  died," 
she  said  softly.  "  I  did  n't  care,  but  he  did. 
I  think  I  '11  keep  this." 

She  picked  up  a  photograph,  old  fashioned 
and  faded,  and  studied  it  for  a  moment.  Then 
an  ironical  smile  hovered  about  the  corners  of 
her  mouth.  "  Cremate  him,"  she  commanded, 
tossing  it  to  Judith. 

"Why?"  The  man's  face  was  pleasant 
if  not  actually  handsome.  On  the  way  to 
the  fireplace,  Judith  noted  the  high  fine  fore 
head,  the  poetic,  dreamy  eyes,  the  straight  nose, 
the  full  sensuous  mouth,  and  the  weak  chin. 

"  I  was  engaged  to  him  once,  for  a  little 
while.  I  was  engaged  so  many  times  it  got  to 
be  rather  a  habit.  He  lied  to  me,  and  I  was 
on  the  verge  of  asking  him  to  promise  not  to 
lie  to  me  any  more.  Perceiving  the  irony  of 
it,  I  returned  his  ring,  with  a  beautifully  writ 
ten  copy  of  the  ten  commandments.  I  put 
'Thou  shalt  not  lie'  in  red  ink,  so  he  would 
understand.  I  think  he  did — I  never  heard 
from  him  again." 

"You  did  n't  expect  to,  did  you  ?"  queried 
Judith,  repressing  a  smile  with  difficulty,  but 
Miss  Cynthia  was  in  the  trunk  again,  hat  and 
all,  and  did  not  hear. 


Hsbes  of  Desire 


277 


Packet  after  packet  of  letters  came  out  and 
struck  the  floor,  some  near  the  trunk  and  others 
far  from  it.  Miss  Cynthia's  face  was  flushed 
when  she  emerged,  with  the  last  packet  and  a 
triumphant:  "There — that 's  every  last  letter!" 

"  You  reminded  me  of  an  energetic  gopher," 
Judith  commented,  "excavating  a  new  burrow 
in  a  bank  of  old  sentiment." 

"Very  pretty,  my  dear.  Put  these  on  the 
fire,  will  you  ?" 

"All  of  them  ?" 

"All  of  them.  The  prize  idiot  is  the  man  or 
woman  who  keeps  love  letters,  no  matter  who 
they  're  from."  She  selected  a  bundle  as  she 
spoke.  It  was  tied  with  faded  pink  ribbon  and 
dated  in  Miss  Cynthia's  own  handwriting. 
She  had  her  relics  as  neatly  labelled  as  a  but 
terfly  collector  labels  his  specimens. 

"This  man  is  married  and  has  six  children. 
I  sent  him  two  large  spoons  as  a  wedding 
gift  and  his  wife  never  acknowledged  it.  I 
suppose  she  thought  it  was  too  suggestive. 
This  one  is  dead,  but  he  was  married  twice 
first.  This  one  is  n't  dead,  nor  married,  but 
he  's  in  the  penitentiary  for  forgery — writing 
is  a  bad  habit,  when  it  leads  you  too  far. 
Don't  know  what  became  of  this  one,  nor  this 
one,  nor  this.  Here  's  two  priceless  epistles 
from  a  man  who  hated  a  pen  as  I  hate  a  needle. 
I  ought  to  have  'em  framed,  but  it 's  wiser 
to  burn  'em  up. 


Ube 


flMot 


278 


Meaver  of  Breams 


flntbe 
jflamee 


"  I  remember  reading  a  story  about  some 
children  in  a  small  town  who  got  into  an 
old  trunk  one  afternoon,  found  a  packet 
of  letters,  and  went  around  leaving  one  or  two 
at  each  neighbour's  door.  They  were  'play 
ing  postman'  and  they  had  a  beautiful  time, 
but  things  were  never  the  same  again  in  the 
village.  Very  few  of  the  women  spoke  to  each 
other  afterward." 

Judith  sat  by  the  fireplace,  stirring  the  let 
ters  with  a  poker,  for  nothing  burns  quite 
so  slowly  as  folded  correspondence-paper  to 
which  age  has  given  a  peculiar  power  of  defy 
ing  the  elements.  Now  and  then  a  "my 
darling"  or  "my  dearest"  or  "my  own  be 
loved"  flickered  for  an  instant  in  the  flame  be 
fore  it  disappeared. 

"  How  could  you  treat  me  so  ?"  one  man  had 
demanded,  in  violet  ink  that  had  faded  to 
brown,  and  again  in  the  same  bold  hand: 
"Where  were  you  yesterday  ?  I  waited  and 
waited,  but  you  did  not  come." 

"  I  am  terribly  lonely  without  you  .  .  ." 
"  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  .  .  ."  "  Every 
thing  that  I  am  and  all  that  I  hope  to  be  I 
owe  to  you  .  .  ."  "The  time  that  separates 
us  seems  eternity  .  .  ."  "  I  love  you  as  woman 
was  never  loved  befdre  .  .  ."  "  Dear  and  Al 
ways  Dearer  .  .  ."  "Good-night  my  darling, 
may  God  keep  you"  ..."  I  love  you  as  a 
man  may  love  but  once  .  .  ."  "  You  are  the 


Ube  Hsbes  of  Beef  re 


279 


woman  God  made  for  me  .  .  ."  "  Dear,  I 
want  you,  need  you,  love  you  so  .  .  ."  "  More 
than  queen  or  goddess,  you  are  woman — 
what  else  is  there  for  man  to  say  ?" 

In  scattered  and  broken  phrases,  the  lan 
guage  of  love  appeared  before  Judith.  Dead 
passions  warmed  to  life  upon  the  coals  that 
in  another  instant  would  reduce  them  to 
ashes.  The  letters  crumbled  into  dust  upon 
the  hearth,  and  the  spirit  that  had  prompted 
them,  freed  from  the  bondage  of  the  written 
page,  ascended  in  grey-and-purple  smoke  to 
the  heaven  where  it  was  born.  One  last  "  I 
love  you,"  curled  within  a  wisp  of  burned 
paper,  went  up  with  the  grey-and-purple  to  the 
unknown. 

"There,  Aunt  Cynthia — your  past  has  been 
properly  cremated  by  your  loving  niece." 
Judith  spoke  lightly,  quite  at  her  ease  again. 
"  I  have  n't  meant  to  read  your  letters,  but  I 
could  n't  help  seeing  occasional  lines  as  they 
burned.  Do  you  remember  that  story  of 
Addison's  in  The  Spectator,  where  the  people 
on  an  ice-bound  ship  found  that  they  could 
not  hear  one  another  speak,  and  how,  when  the 
thaw  came,  bits  of  conversation  melted  into  the 
wrong  ears  ?" 

Miss  Cynthia  did  not  answer.  She  sat  star 
ing  at  the  fire,  lonely  and  pathetic  in  spite  of 
her  opera  coat  and  white  plumed  hat  upon 
which  the  brilliants  gleamed  like  so  many 


©one  up 
in  Smoke 


280 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


diamonds.  Upon  her  lap  was  spread  a  man's 
large  silk  handkerchief  that  had  once  been 
white,  but  soaked  to  its  margin  by  a  rusty 
stain  that,  with  a  shudder,  Judith  saw  must 
have  been  blood.  One  hand  hung  limply  from 
the  arm  of  her  chair  and  from  it  by  a  tarnished 
gold  chain  hung  a  locket  of  black  enamel,  bor 
dered  by  discoloured  pearls.  Upon  the  enamel, 
in  high  relief,  was  a  diamond  cross. 

"It 's  all  gone,  Aunt  Cynthia,"  said  Judith, 
very  gently.  "There's  nothing  left  but 
ashes." 

"The  ashes  of  desire,"  muttered  Miss  Cyn 
thia — "  left  from  the  fires  of  Life." 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence,  then 
Judith  went  to  the  window.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly. 
She  drew  back  the  curtains  and  let  into  the 
room  a  flood  of  golden  light  that  mocked  the 
candles  and  the  fire. 

"Come,  dear — it's  day  again!  See?" 
She  went  around  the  room  quickly,  putting 
out  the  candles. 

Miss  Cynthia  roused  herself.  Her  face  was 
pale  but  her  wonderful  eyes  blazed  as  from 
some  inward  light.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "it's 
day  again,"  then  added,  to  herself,  brokenly, 
"How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long!" 

She  reached  for  her  crutch  and  rose,  stiffly, 
to  her  feet.  She  still  had  the  locket  and  the 
stained  handkerchief. 


28l 

"What  about  the  trunks  ?"  asked  Judith,  as 
she  blew  out  a  candle. 

"Upstairs  again,  or  anywhere  you  like. 
It  doesn't  matter."  She  held  up  the  hand 
kerchief  and  the  locket  to  Judith.  "  I  have 
nothing  left  but  these — nothing  left  but  these!" 

Judith  bent  to  blow  out  the  last  candle. 
When  she  raised  her  head  again,  Miss  Cynthia 
had  gone  into  her  own  room  and  slammed  the 
door. 


•not  tbe 
Same 


XIX 


parting  of  tbe 


ADORABLE  ONE,  who  had  at  her 
1  command  gifts  of  chicken  bones  and 
cream,  was  crying,  and  Algernon  was  very 
sad.  Being  a  young  dog,  he  failed  to  under 
stand  how  the  writing  on  two  sheets  of  paper 
could  break  one's  heart.  Yet,  since  the 
Adorable  One,  with  trembling  fingers,  had 
hastily  torn  open  an  envelope  which  she  re 
ceived  one  morning  when  they  went  as  usual 
to  the  postoffice,  things  had  not  been  the  same. 

Were  it  not  for  Eliza,  who  daily  took  pity  up 
on  him,  Algernon  would  have  starved.  Some 
times,  too,  Mr.  Chandler  would  give  him  a 
bone  at  the  table,  though  it  was  against  the 
rules  of  the  house  for  people  and  dogs  to  eat  in 
the  same  place.  Mr.  Chandler  was  troubled 
too,  just  as  Algernon  was.  Once  the  man  had 
called  him  to  his  wheeled  chair,  and,  with  a 
soft  pat  on  his  head,  had  inquired:  "What  's 
wrong,  old  boy  ?  Do  you  know  ?" 

Algernon  did  not  know,  so  he  only  wagged 
his  tail  politely  in  acknowledgment  of  the  caress 


Ube  parting  of  tbe  Maps 


283 


and  reciprocated  with  a  friendly  lick  of  the 
man's  hand. 

The  Adorable  One  spent  the  rainy  days  alone 
in  her  room,  and  never  once  opened  the  door, 
though  Algernon  scratched  and  whined  out 
side  and  loudly  thumped  the  floor  with  his 
tail.  To-day,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  ad 
mitted  him. 

But,  contrary  to  his  expectations,  there  was 
no  game  to  be  played,  or  even  the  inconse 
quent  chatter  to  which  he  was  accustomed. 
Having  opened  the  door  to  him,  and  as  quickly 
closed  it  again,  the  Adorable  One  went  back 
to  her  couch,  where  she  had  been  lying,  and 
sat  down  upon  a  heap  of  rumpled  pillows. 
Algernon  went  to  her,  and  leaned  hard  against 
her,  as  a  dog  will  lean  upon  those  he  loves. 
He  put  his  head  into  her  lap,  turned  his  big 
brown  eyes  to  the  brimming  blue  ones,  and 
wagged  his  tail. 

The  Adorable  One  put  her  arms  around  his 
shaggy  neck  and  hugged  him  so  tightly  that 
it  hurt.  All  she  said  was:  "Oh,  doggie! 
doggie!  doggie!" 

The  door  swung  ajar,  but  nobody  paid  any 
attention  to  it.  Finding  it  difficult  to  breathe, 
Algernon  slipped  out  of  her  embrace,  but  very 
gently,  so  that  he  might  not  hurt  her  feelings. 
The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  but,  apparently, 
she  did  not  care  to  go  out.  He  nosed  around 
in  the  closet  until  he  found  the  old  slipper 


•fio  plav; 


284 


H  Deleaver  of  Dreams 


•no 

Comfort 


which  she  had  taught  him  to  fetch  and  carry, 
but  she  was  not  interested  in  it.  She  merely 
said:  "Take  it  back,"  so  he  did  so,  then  sat 
down  to  wait  developments. 

The  roads  were  muddy,  but  the  sidewalks 
were  dry  and  the  grass  was  soft  and  cool. 
It  was  a  day  divinely  appointed  for  people 
and  dogs  to  be  out,  but  the  Adorable  One, 
usually  so  quick  of  comprehension,  failed  to 
understand  this.  He  went  back  to  the  closet 
and  brought  the  little  whip  which  she  usually 
carried  when  they  went  out,  though  she  had 
never  struck  him  with  it  but  once  or  twice. 
Even  to  this,  she  said  merely:  "Take  it  back," 
and  continued  to  sit  there,  with  her  face  hid 
den  in  her  hands. 

Her  loosened  hair  fell  about  her  like  a  veil 
of  golden  mist.  Sunbeams  came  into  the  room 
and  touched  it  caressingly,  then  retreated  be 
fore  the  glory  they  themselves  had  made. 
Even  the  little  blue  sailor  at  the  cross-roads 
had  a  glimpse  of  it,  as  he  spun  around 
upon  the  weather-vane,  and,  now  and 
then,  had  a  chance  to  peer  into  ^Margery's 
room. 

A  halting  figure  in  white  paused  at  the  cross 
roads.  The  little  blue  sailor  turned  on  his 
perch,  but  his  painted  smile  brought  no  re 
sponse  from  the  sad  face  beneath  the  poppy- 
trimmed  hat.  As  one  whose  steps  are  guided 
by  duty  rather  than  pleasure,  Judith  turned 


parting  of  tbe 


285 


the  corner  and  went  to  the  house.  Chandler 
greeted  her  warmly. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  again,"  he  said, 
pressing  her  hand  gratefully.  "  I  've  missed 
you  so!" 

"  I  was  sorry,"  she  answered,  removing  her 
hat  and,  with  swift,  careless  touches,  restoring 
her  hair  to  perfect  order.  "  I  'd  have  come 
if  I  'd  been  able  to  swim  this  distance." 

"  I  did  n't  expect  you — indeed,  I  hoped  you 
would  n't  come.  But  it 's  been  lonely  here." 

Judith  glanced  at  him  quickly.  "Mar 
gery ?" 

"  Has  n't  seemed  like  herself  lately,  for  some 
reason." 

"Is  she  ill?" 

"No — merely  unhappy." 

Judith  bit  her  lips  upon  the  instinctive  ques 
tion.  "  I  don't  know,"  Chandler  returned,  in 
answer  to  her  thought,  "but  if  it  were  any 
thing  I  could  set  straight  for  her,  I  think  she  'd 
tell  me." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  Judith  murmured.  "Here's 
a  jar  of  sweet  pickles  from  Aunt  Cynthia,  and 
the  primer  from  which  she  learned  to  read. 
She  said  she  expected  you  to  keep  the  pickles 
but  she  'd  like  to  have  the  primer  back." 

"How  did  she  happen  to  think  of  sending 
me  the  primer  ?"  he  asked,  turning  the  worn 
and  dog-eared  pages  with  amusement. 

"We    were    house-cleaning — that    is    Aunt 


286 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


trwo  Cynthia  was.  She  went  over  what  she  terms 
her  'soul-baggage'  and  rearranged  it.  She 
burned  most  of  it,  including  all  her  old  love 
letters." 

"Wise  woman,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 

"Why  ?     Have  you  burned  yours  ?" 

"I  never  had  any,"  muttered  Chandler. 
"  I  wrote  one,  once,  but  there  was  nobody  to 
send  it  to,  so  I  tore  it  up." 

"Aunt  Cynthia  says  that  anybody  who  keeps 
love  letters  is  a  prize  idiot." 

"Undoubtedly.  You  know  Carl  vie  says: 
'There  is  no  other  entirely  fatal  person/  ' 

"She  wanted  to  send  you  some  flowers,  but 
there  was  n't  a  thing  in  the  garden  that  has  n't 
been  drenched  and  had  its  petals  soaked  off. 
She  was  rather  inclined  toward  a  spray  of 
poison-ivy  that  had  turned  scarlet  weeks  ahead 
of  time,  but  I  dissuaded  her.  She  never  can 
remember  which  is  which." 

"Well,  which  is?" 

"A  five-fingered  leaf,  like  your  own  hand, 
means  that  the  ivy  is  friendly,  but  a  three- 
fingered  leaf  means:  'You'd  better  let  me 
alone/  She  always  gets  it  twisted." 

While  they  were  talking,  Chandler  had  tuned 
his  violin  and  replaced  a  broken  string.  Pre 
sently,  the  music  of  an  old  minuet  danced  up 
the  stairway  and  through  Margery's  open  door, 
but  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  Algernon 
looked  at  her  inquiringly,  his  head  upon  one 


parting  ot  tbe 


287 


side.  Did  n't  the  girl  know  they  had  com 
pany  downstairs  ?  Apparently  not. 

He  whined  restlessly,  then  dragged  out  the 
old  slipper  again.  Nobody  told  him  to  take 
it  back,  so  he  lay  down  at  the  Adorable  One's 
feet  and  chewed  the  small  French  heel  almost 
off.  Algernon  had  some  new  teeth  coming  and 
the  slipper  was  acceptable,  in  a  way,  though  it 
was  not  palatable  to  a  dog  that  was  accustomed 
to  chicken  and  cream. 

The  minuet  ceased.  Voices  murmured  be 
low,  then  the  music  began  again.  With  full, 
joyous  chords,  a  waltz  came  through  the  open 
door.  Margery  shuddered  and  hid  her  face 
more  closely  in  her  hands. 

Sunlight  streamed  into  the  room.  Little 
leaves,  made  from  shadow,  danced  upon  the 
floor  in  time  with  the  waltz.  The  blue  sailor 
spun  merrily,  and,  in  the  rising  wind,  a  sheet 
of  paper  fluttered  off  the  couch  and  to  the 
floor. 

Margery  did  not  move.  Algernon  nosed  at 
it,  vaguely  delighted  by  an  old  familiar  scent 
of  man  and  tobacco,  inextricably  mingled 
with  that  subtle  fragrance  which  was  part  of 
the  Adorable  One.  Then,  climbing  up  on  her 
lap,  he  licked  the  small  hands  that  covered 
her  face. 

"Go  away!"  she  said,  with  a  petulant  slap. 

He  sat  down  for  a  moment,  then  picked  up 
the  sheet  of  paper  and  began  to  chew  it.  "Go 


H 

^fluttering 
Sbeet 


288 


a  Weaver  of  Dreams 


TCbe 

dslT 

paragraph 


away!"  Margery  commanded.  Grieved  and 
disappointed,  Algernon  slunk  through  the  open 
door  and  crept  down-stairs,  where  the  music 
was  and  where,  also,  people  might  be  more 
cheerful. 

"Judith,"  said  the  man  in  the  wheeled  chair, 
"would  you  mind  seeing  what  that  pup  has  in 
his  mouth  ?" 

The  music  stopped  with  a  broken  chord.  A 
commanding  figure  bent  over  Algernon,  who 
was  chewing  vigorously.  Strong  white  hands 
forced  his  jaws  apart  and  extracted  a  wet, 
crumpled  sheet  of  paper. 

Dizzily,  in  Carter's  unmistakable  writing,  a 
single  paragraph  confronted  Judith: 
'  "  You  will  think,  perhaps,  that  I  have  no  right 
to  say  this  to  you,  but  why  not,  as  long  as  it  is 
the  truth,  and  for  the  last  time  ?  You  know 
all  that  she  is,  and  how  fine  she  is;  you  know, 
too,  that  she  must  not  be  hurt,  that  every 
spark  of  manhood  I  have  in  me  urges  me  to 
keep  faith  with  her  and  never  let  her  suspect 
for  an  instant  that  I  have  changed." 

For  the  moment  Judith's  senses  failed  her, 
then,  all  at  once,  became  mercilessly  acute. 
"What  is  it  ?"  Chandler  was  asking.  "Any 
thing  important  ?" 

"No,"  returned  Judith,  with  lips  that 
scarcely  moved.  Then  she  tossed  it  into  the 
waste-basket.  "  I  could  n't  see  what  it  was, 
he  'd  chewed  it  so." 


Ube  parting  ot  tbe  Mags  289 

"Algernon  evidently  believes  with  Macaulay* 
that  'a  page  digested  is  better  than  a  book      £"' 
hurriedly  read/  ' 

"Evidently."  Judith's  stiff  lips  forced 
themselves  into  the  semblance  of  a  smile. 
"'On  with  the  dance/"  she  said  bravely, 
"'let  joy  be  unconfined/" 

It  would  be  an  hour  before  she  could  pos 
sibly  escape.  Mechanically,  she  played  the 
accompaniments  that  Chandler  suggested, 
though  more  than  once  her  hands  faltered 
upon  the  keys.  Like  a  wounded  animal,  she 
longed  for  darkness  and  solitude;  like  a 
wounded  animal,  too,  the  trap  still  held  her 
fast. 

With  unsuspected  irony,  Chandler's  mood 
ran  to  dance  music.  All  the  afternoon  they 
played  waltzes,  minuets,  stirring  marches, 
and  old-fashioned  country  dances.  The  utter 
discordance  of  it  all  affected  Judith  very 
much  as  a  cotillion  might  if  it  were  given  in  a 
cemetery. 

At  last  the  clock  struck  five.  With  a  sigh 
of  relief  she  turned  away  from  the  piano. 
"Is  it  really  five  o'clock?"  she  asked,  with 
well-assumed  surprise.  "  I  had  no  idea — I 
must  be  going." 

When,  after  an  interval  which  seemed  much 
longer  than  it  was,  she  had  creditably  achieved 
departure,  Margery  came  down-stairs.  She 
received  in  silence  the  polite  message  Judith 


290 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Ube 
ttorn  page 

IRecovcrcb 


had  left  for  her,  and  Chandler,  putting  his 
violin  into  its  case,  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"  I  've  lost  a  letter,"  Margery  said,  "  that  is, 
part  of  one.  It  troubles  me." 

Chandler  pointed  to  the  waste-basket.  "  I 
think  you  '11  find  it  there.  The  puppy  came 
in  chewing  a  piece  of  paper  and  I  asked  Judith 
to  take  it  away  from  him." 

Margery  rushed  to  the  waste-basket  with 
the  colour  surging  over  her  face  in  a  crimson 
flood.  She  found  the  torn  page  and  smoothed 
it  out.  Then  from  a  tense  silence,  the  ques 
tion  fairly  leaped  at  Chandler:  "Did  she  see 
this  ?" 

"No — she  said  it  was  so  much  torn  that  she 
could  n't  see  what  it  was." 

"Oh!"  The  page  was  torn,  indeed,  but  that 
one  condemning  paragraph  was  intact — and 
Judith  must  know  Carter's  writing.  Had  she 
seen  it — or  had  she  lied  ? 

"  I  'm  glad  I  found  it,"  said  Margery,  dully, 
turning  to  go  up-stairs  again.  "It's  of  no 
importance,  but " 

"  But  one  does  n't  like  to  have  one's  letters 
chewed  up,"  Chandler  concluded,  kindly. 
"Algernon  is  a  very  bad  dog.  You  must 
teach  him  better  manners." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  Margery 
was  on  the  stairs.  Chandler  smiled  a  little. 
He  knew  that  she  did  not  intend  to  be  rude; 
she  simply  had  not  heard.  Secretly  he  was 


parting  of  tbe 


291 


troubled,  for  afar,  and  beyond  perception  by 
any  sense  of  his,  the  gods  of  Life  and  Joy 
waged  bitter  warfare  against  an  overwhelming 
Fate. 

Judith  scarcely  knew  where  she  was  going, 
but  instinct  led  her  along  the  usual  path. 
Against  the  sunset  the  love-star  gleamed  in 
mockery.  Judith  had  followed  it — and,  like 
a  will-o'-the-wisp,  it  had  led  her  into  the  quick 
sands.  But,  remorselessly  insistent,  the  right 
way  lay  open  before  her,  and,  as  she  had  told 
Carter  many  times,  there  was  no  possibility  of 
a  choice. 

White  to  the  lips  and  very  weary,  she  reached 
home  and  went  at  once  to  her  room,  sending 
to  Miss  Cynthia  the  excuse  of  a  headache, 
which  did  not  deceive  the  old  lady  at 
all. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  Carter  came  home, 
tanned,  somewhat  burned,  and  fully  self- 
possessed,  though  far  from  happy.  Upon  his 
arrival  at  the  office  he  telephoned  to  Judith, 
said  he  was  well,  had  had  a  good  time,  and 
would  see  her  that  evening. 

Though  she  seldom  wore  it,  Judith  arrayed 
herself  in  black.  Then,  rebelling  at  the  sug 
gestion  of  mourning,  she  adorned  herself  with 
every  jewel  she  owned — except  the  ruby  ring, 
which  she  wore  now  only  in  Miss  Cynthia's 
presence.  If,  at  dinner,  the  old  lady  noticed 


Carter's 
•Return 


2Q2 


H  Meaner  ot  Dreams 


B  TLlttle 
Hpact 


that  the  seal  of  betrothal  was  missing,  she  had 
too  much  tact  to  speak  of  it. 

When  Carter  came,  with  roses  for  both 
women,  there  was  no  trace  of  constraint  in  his 
manner,  yet  Judith  shuddered  when  he  kissed 
her. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  asked,  affectionately. 
"Are  you  cold  ?  Shall  I  get  you  a  wrap  of 
some  sort?  Would  you  rather  go  into  the 
house  than  to  stay  out  here  ?" 

To  all  of  which  Judith  responded  "No,"  in  a 
quiet  voice  which  seemed  unlike  her  own. 
With  gay  banter  Miss  Cynthia  endeavoured 
to  conduct  the  conversation  between  herself 
and  Carter.  Judith  sat  a  little  apart  from 
them,  speaking  only  in  monosyllables  or  in 
brief  conventional  phrases  when  she  spoke  at 
all. 

At  last  Miss  Cynthia  went  in,  saying  that  she 
was  cold  and  preferred  to  read  in  her  own 
room.  When  her  door  closed,  Carter  came 
over  to  Judith  and  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek. 

"  I  've  been  away  a  long  time,  dear,"  he 
said,  "but  I  '11  never  leave  you  again.  I  had 
to  go  this  time,  really,  though  I  did  n't  want  to." 

Judith  did  not  answer. 

"  How  is  the  house  getting  on  ?"  he  continued. 

"  I— don't  know." 

"Haven't  you  been  there  lately?" 

"No." 

"  It 's  rained  a  good  deal,  has  n't  it?" 


Ube  parting  of  tbe 


293 


"Yes." 

"  Rather  wet  up  in  the  woods,  too,  but 
there  surely  must  have  been  some  pleasant 
days.  Why  did  n't  you  go  to  look  at  the 
house  ?" 

"  I — I  could  n't." 

"  Have  n't  you  been  there  at  all  since  I  went 
away  ?" 

"No."  Judith  cleared  her  throat,  then, 
with  desperate  courage,  faced  him  for  the 
thing  she  had  to  say.  "  I  have  n't  been  there 
since  the  day  you  met  Margery  Gordon  there. 
I  happened  to  come  in  the  back  way,  and  saw 
you  holding  her  in  your  arms.  I  went  out 
again  immediately.  I  don't  think  either  of 
you  heard  me." 

"So,"  said  Carter,  half  to  himself.  He  got 
up,  and  paced  back  and  forth  upon  the  ve 
randa,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Judith,"  he  began,  "I  have  n't  any  hope 
of  making  you  understand  me — you  're  too 
perfect  to  understand,  but  I  'm  going  to  try 
it.  I  did  n't  know — I  never  guessed  that  you 
were  there.  Something  took  me  by  the  throat 
and  made  me  do  it.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
have  hated  myself  for  it — there  are  n't  enough 
words  in  the  language  to  give  you  a  clear  idea. 
I  'd  have  come  to  you  at  once  and  told  you, 
only  it  was  n't  decent  to — to — 

"To  betray  her,"  concluded  Judith,  for 
him. 


Carter 
•Cries  to 
jErplain 


294 


H 


ot  2>reams 


H  Straight 
Question 


"Exactly.  I  had  no  desire  to  spare  my 
self.  If  you  can  understand  how  a  man  might 
be  overwhelmed  by  a  momentary  impulse, 
then- 
Judith  rose,  too.  Her  face  was  in  shadow, 
but  the  moon,  coming  out  from  behind  a 
cloud,  shone  full  upon  his — boyish  and  per 
plexed.  The  mother  in  Judith  pitied  him; 
the  outraged  womanhood  in  her  urged  her  to 
let  him  feel  her  scorn. 

"Carter,"  she  said,  "this  is  no  time  for 
lies.  I  want  the  truth.  I  'd  rather  have  any 
man's  honest  hatred  than  his  pretended  love. 
I  'm  not  so  dense  but  what  I'  can  understand 
a  momentary  impulse,  a  week's  madness  even, 
or  more.  A  kiss,  in  itself,  means  nothing. 
I  'm  not  the  jealous  sort,  as  you  know — you 
might  kiss  a  dozen  women  without  my  caring 
in  the  least,  provided ' 

"Provided  what?"  In  his  turn,  he  con 
cluded  a  troublesome  sentence  for  her,  but 
she  evaded  it. 

"  Do  you  love  Margery  ?  The  truth,  please," 
she  went  on,  after  an  instant's  hesitation. 

Carter  sighed  heavily,  then,  miserably, 
he  met  her  scornful,  accusing  eyes.  "Yes, 
but— 

Judith  stopped  him  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand.  "Never  mind,"  she  said  clearly. 
"That's  all."  She  extended  to  him  a  white 
hand  that  trembled  ever  so  little.  The 


ttbe  parting  ot  tbe 


295 


late  summer  moonlight  revealed  the  ruby 
ring. 

He  shrank  back  from  her,  swallowing  hard. 
"Judith,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  I  won't.  You  Ve 
got  to  hear  me — I  Ve  got  to  make  you  under 
stand.  You  're  making  me  hate  myself  for 
the  rest  of  my  life — you  've  got  to  give  me  a 
chance  to  be  decent — to  be  right  with  myself." 

"And  with  me  ?"  The  mocking  question 
was  followed  by  an  hysterical  laugh. 

"And  with  you.  You  Ve  been  everything 
in  the  world  to  me,  Judith.  All  that  I  am  and 
all  that  I  ever  shall  be,  I  owe  to  you.  I  Ve 
loved  you,  I  Ve  adored  you — I  Ve  worshipped 
you,  and,  as  God  is  my  witness,  I  have  not 
changed." 

"No,"  she  returned,  softening  a  little,  "I 
can  understand  that,  but  there 's  something 
else.  I  have  n't  been  enough." 

"Don't,"  he  groaned — "yes,  go  on,  if  you 
like.  I  deserve  it  all." 

"  Dear  boy,"  she  breathed,  in  pity,  "you  Ve 
outgrown  your  need  of  me,  and  you  're  ready 
for  something  else.  I  don't  want  anything 
that  is  not  wholly  mine.  I  never  want  to  be 
anything  to  you  that  any  other  woman  on 
earth  can  be." 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  me,  Judith — it  was  only 
a  moment's  madness,  a  momentary  im 
pulse— 

"  You  Ve  been  thinking  of  yourself  all  this 


Something 


296 


H  Weaver  of  2>reams 


point  of 
View 


time,  Carter.  It  has  n't  occurred  to  you  that 
I  might  not  want  to  marry  a  man  who  was 
subject  to  those  impulses,  nor  that  it  might 
make  any  difference  in  my  love  for  you.  Do 
you  think  a  woman  can  continue  to  love  a  man 
after  she  has  seen  him,  even  through  a  mo 
mentary  impulse,  putting  another  woman  in 
her  place  ?  Have  you  thought  of  that  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered  wretchedly,  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  that.  Women — good  women- 
forgive — they  always  forgive!" 

"Surely,  but  the  love  is  n't  the  same.  How 
can  it  be  ?" 

"Judith!"  he  cried.  "Have  you  ceased  to 
care  ?  Tell  me  the  truth!" 

He  had  her  hands  in  his,  crushing  them  so 
tightly  that  her  rings  hurt.  Tense,  eager, 
he  waited  for  the  answer  which  was  so  slow 
in  coming.  "The  truth,"  he  muttered, 
hoarsely,  "the  truth!" 

Judith  lifted  clear  eyes  to  his.  Gallantly 
she  told  her  lie.  "  I  'm  sorry — but  I  can't 
care.  I  can't  go  on.  This  is  the  end." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  away, 
then  came  back.  "I  see,"  he  said  grimly. 
"  I  Ve  lost  you." 

"Don't  be  so  tragical,  please,"  she  replied, 
trying  to  speak  lightly.  "We've  simply 
outgrown  each  other,  that 's  all.  People  do 
it — both  before  and  after  marriage."  Then, 
in  Chandler's  words,  she  added,  "Whatever  is 


parting  of  tbe  Mass  297 


mine,  I  shall  have  and  shall  keep.     Nothing     "Remotes 
that  is  truly  mine  can  ever  be  taken  from  me  — 
and  what  is  n't  mine,  I  don't  want." 

He  choked  back  the  impassioned  words 
that  came  to  his  lips.  Upon  the  instant  she 
had  attained  her  quality  of  remoteness. 
Serene,  untroubled  by  emotion  of  any  sort, 
Judith  was  as  far  from  him  as  a  star. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "I  trust  we  shall 
be  friends." 

Carter  did  not  answer.  He  went  away 
blindly,  his  senses  confused  by  an  emotional 
fog.  Judith  kept  her  self-control  until  he  had 
closed  the  gate  behind  him,  then  sank  to  the 
floor  of  the  veranda  in  a  passion  of  bitter 
tears.  Stabbing  sharply,  like  the  surgeon's 
knife,  yet  with  something  of  its  healing  power, 
was  the  knowledge  that  she  had  saved  her 
pride. 


298 


XX 

Clotb  of  (Boib 

DED  and  angry,  as  though  following  some 
1\  great  disaster,  morning  broke  over  the 
roofs  of  the  world.  Judith  woke  with  the 
sense  that  something  had  happened,  and  in  an 
instant  was  alive  to  her  painful  realities.  The 
carrier  pigeon  came  to  her  window  with  a 
message: 

"  I  can't  bear  it.  You  must  let  me  keep 
my  self-respect — you  must  help  me  keep  it. 
Surely  you  will  not  fail  me  now." 

To  which  she  replied: 

"Have  I  ever  failed  you  ?  Is  it  not  rather 
you  who  have  failed  me  ?  Believe  me,  I 
have  done  the  best  for  you  as  well  as  for  my 
self.  Please  do  not  speak  of  this  again." 

Like  the  stroke  of  a  sword,  her  agony  had 
cleft  her  in  twain.  She  had  become  two 
selves — one  a  hurt  and  outraged  woman,  on 
fire  with  resentment  and  passionate  longing; 
the  other  calm  and  poised  like  some  subliminal 
self,  watchful,  and  on  guard  to  save  them 
both. 

The  way  lay  straight  ahead,  and  step  by  step, 


Glotb  of  Golo 


299 


she  would  go  upon  it — she  must  go.  She 
thought  of  'going  away  somewhere,  then 
swiftly  reproached  herself  for  her  cowardice. 

"Face  the  thing,  Judith,"  she  admonished 
herself,  "and  never  let  your  bugles  sound  re 
treat." 

It  required  some  courage  to  meet  Aunt 
Cynthia's  eyes  when  she  went  out  upon  the 
veranda  to  breakfast.  Without  obtrusively 
avoiding  the  subject  of  Carter's  return,  the  old 
lady  chattered  inconsequently  of  everything 
else.  When  the  trays  were  removed  Judith 
settled  back  in  her  chair. 

"Aunt  Cynthia,"  she  said  abruptly,  "I  've 
broken  my  engagement." 

Taken  off  her  guard,  even  Miss  Cynthia  was 
confused.  For  the  moment  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  Obviously,  she  could  not  offer 
congratulations,  nor  ask  why,  nor  make  light 
of  it  as  a  lover's  quarrel.  She  picked  up 
her  crutch,  went  to  Judith,  and  kissed  her. 
"  I  may  be  selfish,  dearest,"  she  said  softly, 
"but  I  'm  very  glad  I  'm  not  going  to  lose 
you  just  yet." 

Judith  caught  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her 
cheek,  then  released  it.  "Thank  you,  dear 
Aunt  Cynthia,"  she  said  tremulously,  "  I 
knew  you  would  understand." 

Beginning  with  the  subject  nearest  at  hand, 
Miss  Cynthia  spoke  of  the  garden,  and  re 
quested  Judith's  opinion  as  to  the  bulbs  for 


3u»ftb 

•Cells  Hunt 
Csntbfa 


300 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Urouble 


Fall  planting.  She  went  on  to  pickles,  grape 
jelly,  new  curtains  for  the  sitting-room, 
and  other  housewifely  matters  to  which,  as  a 
rule,  she  paid  but  scant  attention.  She  had 
never  allowed  herself,  as  she  expressed  it,  to 
become  "  the  slave  of  things."  The  house  was 
for  her — she  was  in  no  sense  for  the  house. 

Except  for  the  pitiful  reminder  of  the  crutch, 
Miss  Cynthia  seemed  to  be  in  full  bloom. 
Her  cheeks  were  delicately  pink,  her  lips  were 
red,  and  the  sun  shining  upon  her  silvered  hair 
gave  her  the  halo  of  a  saint.  Her  wonder 
ful  eyes  sparkled  with  animation  and  with  the 
joy  of  living.  Judith  wondered  what  tragedy 
lay  buried  in  Miss  Cynthia's  heart,  and  if, 
over  the  grave  of  her  own,  she  might  ever  hope 
to  have  such  a  garden. 

"A  note,  ma'am,"  said  the  maid,  appearing 
on  the  veranda.  "Mr.  Chandler's  man  is 
waiting  for  the  answer." 

"Wonder  what's  broken  loose  now," 
thought  Miss  Cynthia  as  she  opened  it. 

"  Dear  Friend,"  the  note  began.  "  I  am  in 
genuine  trouble.  My  little  girl  is  very  un 
happy  and  is  packing  her  trunk  to  leave  me. 
I  dare  not  ask,  I  cannot  bear  to  have  her  so 
wretched,  and,  more  than  all  the  rest,  I  cannot 
let  her  go. 

"She  is  absolutely  alone  in  the  world,  she 
is  too  young  to  be  commended  to  its  tender 


Clotb  of 


301 


mercies,  and,  when  I  asked  her  where  she  was 
going,  she  said,  with  a  sob,  that  she  did  n't 
know. 

"  Tell  me  what  to  do,  for  I  am  in  despair. 

"M.  C." 

Miss  Cynthia  sighed,  looked  at  Judith  for  a 
moment,  then  sadly  shook  her  head.  She 
thought  of  sending  a  note  to  Margery  and 
asking  her  to  come  and  see  her,  then  realised 
that  she  knew  the  girl  very  little,  never  having 
seen  her  but  two  or  three  times.  And,  more 
over,  there  was  Judith  to  be  considered. 

"Something  wrong?"  Judith  was  asking, 
in  her  cool,  deep  voice.  "Am  I  concerned  in 
it  in  any  way  ?  Is  it  anything  that  I  can 
straighten  out  ?" 

"  I — don't  know,"  answered  Miss  Cynthia, 
doubtfully.  Then  she  tossed  the  note  to 
Judith,  acting  upon  one  of  those  sudden  im 
pulses  which  are  wise  quite  as  often  as  they  are 
foolish. 

"Tell  him  there  isn't  any  answer,"  said 
Judith,  to  the  waiting  maid,  "but  that  I  'm 
coming." 

"That's  an  answer,"  observed  Miss  Cyn 
thia,  gratefully.  "Into  any  place  of  doubt 
or  trouble  or  unhappiness,  there  is  never  any 
thing  to  send  better  than  you." 

"Thank  you,  dear."  Judith  bent  to  kiss  her 
and  with  a  murmured  "good-bye"  set  forth 


Beting  on 
Impulse 


302 


B  Weaver  of  Breams 


Cyntbia 
•Relieves 
tier  ObiriD 


upon  her  errand.  Miss  Cynthia  watched  her 
until  the  last  bit  of  her  white  linen  gown  had 
disappeared  among  the  trees.  Then,  and  then 
only,  did  she  dare  to  commune  with  herself. 

"Brute!"  she  mused,  with  her  small  hands 
clenched,  "what  can  he  have  done  to  that 
blessed  girl  ?  If  I  were  n't  helpless,  I  'd  go  to 
town  this  very  morning  and  have  it  out  with 
him.  However, — there  's  the  telephone." 

She  was  half-way  to  it  when  she  stopped  to 
think.  If  Judith  had  desired  her  to  telephone 
to  Carter  while  she  was  gone,  she  would  have 
said  so.  And  if  Carter  wished  to  communicate 
with  her,  he  knew  the  number.  She  went  back 
to  her  chair  upon  the  veranda,  shaking  her 
head,  and  feeling  herself  singularly  powerless. 

She  might  write  to  Carter  and  tell  him  what 
she  thought  of  him.  Miss  Cynthia  knew  that 
our  opinion  of  other  people  is  seldom  interest 
ing  to  them,  but  she  got  out  her  writing  pad 
and  with  the  keenest  edge  of  her  sarcasm  in 
spiring  a  blunted  pencil,  put  down  in  clear  and 
concise  English  her  exact  estimate  of  a  man 
who  would  willingly  let  Judith  get  away  from 
him,  even  if  she  wanted  to.  She  added  such 
vituperation  as  a  lady  may  properly  employ, 
and,  much  relieved  in  her  own  mind, — tore  it  up. 

Accustomed  to  self-analysis,  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  part  of  her  concern  for  Judith 
and  Carter  might  not  be  merely  personal 
curiosity.  "Anyhow,"  she  thought,  "they'd 


Clotb  ot 


303 


credit  me  with  that,  if  I  meddled.  They  're 
both  strong,  healthy  people  and  I  think  they  're 
capable  of  managing  their  own  affairs.  And 
yet,"  she  continued,  with  pardonable  scorn, 
"what  a  hopeless  mess  they  've  made  for  them 
selves!  What  are  they  going  to  do  with  that 
house  and  the  furniture,  and  Judith's  wedding- 
gown,  and  everything  else  ?"  Reflecting  that 
the  answer  would  probably  disclose  itself  in 
due  time  without  inquiry  upon  her  part,  she 
settled  herself  to  wait,  very  much  in  the  mood 
of  one  at  the  theatre,  when  the  curtain  has 
fallen  upon  a  stirring  climax. 

When  Judith  reached  Chandler's  he  was  out 
upon  the  porch,  watching  for  his  man  with 
Miss  Cynthia's  answer,  but,  as  is  the  habit 
of  messengers,  the  man  had  loitered  upon  the 
way  and  so  it  happened  that  Judith  reached 
there  first. 

"  Miss  Cynthia — "  he  began,  leaning  forward 
to  take  her  outstretched  hand. 

"  I  'm  the  answer.  Is  n't  it  a  heavenly 
morning  ?" 

"It  is  if  you're  happy.  If  you're  not,  it 
is  n't." 

"Where  is  Margery  ?" 

"  Upstairs.     Do  you  want  to  go  up  ?" 

"No — ask  her  to  come  down,  will  you  ?" 

So  Chandler  called,  twice:  "Margery! 
Margery  dear!" 

Listlessly  she  came  out,  slow  of  foot,  and 


Ube 
Snewer 


304 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


B  Sit  of 


her  hair  in  wild  disorder.  The  blue  eyes  were 
deep  and  sad,  with  dark  hollows  under  them; 
the  scarlet  mouth  drooped  at  the  corners. 
"  Did  you  want  me  ?" 

"I  asked  for  you,"  said  Judith,  kindly. 
Margery  had  not  appeared  to  notice  her  pre 
sence.  "  I  was  out  for  a  walk,  so  I  stopped  in 
with  my  bit  of  news.  I  've  broken  my  en 
gagement,  and  I  'm  trying  to  tell  everybody 
first,  before  they  hear  it  from  others.  It  may 
not  be  the  most  delicate  way,  but  it's  the  most 
effective,  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Chandler  was  astonished,  but  had  no  time 
to  say  so.  Before  Judith,  trying  to  make  her 
trembling  lips  smile  as  she  spoke,  had  even 
finished  her  sentence,  Margery  had  rushed  to 
her,  crying:  "Judith!  I  have  n't  had  anything 
to  do  with  it,  have  I  ?  Oh,  tell  me  I  have  n't ! " 

Judith  was  pale,  but  she  forced  herself  to 
meet  Margery's  eyes.  "Of  course  you  have  n't," 
she  lied.  "What  on  earth  gave  you  such  an 
idea  as  that  ?  jWe  merely  discovered  that 
we  were  n't  suited  to  each  other — that 's 
all.  It 's  rather  unpleasant,  in  a  way,  but  not 
nearly  so  unpleasant  as  it  would  have  been  if 
we  had  found  it  out  after  we  were  married. 
There 's  no  occasion  for  hysterics — Carter  and 
I  are  the  very  best  of  friends — and  hope  to  be 
so  always." 

"Oh,"  breathed  Margery.  "Oh!"  Sob 
bing,  she  left  them,  and  went  upstairs. 


Clotb  of 


305 


When  her  door  closed,  Judith  turned  to 
Chandler.  She  had  herself  well  in  hand  now. 
"That's  the  answer,"  she  said  briefly,  in 
clining  her  head  toward  the  open  door.  "  I 
don't  think  she  '11  go  now." 

The  man's  eyes  sought  hers.  Judith  tried 
to  avoid  that  searching  gaze,  but  could  not. 
At  last,  with  a  sigh,  she  faced  him,  and  leaned 
back  against  the  pillar  of  the  porch.  "  Well  ?" 

"Judith!    What  of  you?" 

"What  of  me?"  she  repeated.  "I  have 
everything.  I  'm  young  and  strong,  I  've 
never  been  ill  a  day  in  my  life,  I  'm  not  so  bad 
to  look  at,  I  have  money  enough  to  enable  me 
to  live  as  I  choose,  I  have  talent  of  which  I 
may  make  something  if  I  'm  willing  to  work, 
I  have  a  comfortable  home,  the  dearest  Aunt 
who  ever  lived,  and — the  dearest  friend." 
The  slightest  possible  emphasis  on  the  last 
words  made  it  clear  to  Chandler  that  she  meant 
him. 

"  But,  Judith !    What  of  you  ? " 

"What  of  me?"  she  repeated,  once  more. 
"Why  I  have  everything!" 

"  Everything,"  said  Chandler,  very  slowly, 
"except — the — thing  you  want." 

She  caught  her  breath  quickly.  "Yes," 
she  said,  dully,  her  eyes  cast  down  and  her 
mouth  trembling,  "It's  the  way  of  the 
world,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  sighed,  "  it 's  the  way  of  the  world, 


ttbe  TTClag 
of  tbs 
World 


306 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Tiabat  is 

©UC0 


but  I  don't  know  that  the  fact  that  it 's  cus 
tomary  makes  it  any  easier  to  bear.  Have 
you,  out  of  some  quixotic  generosity,  turned 
Carter  over  to  Margery  just  because  you 
thought  one  of  them  happened  to  be  interested 
in  the  other  ?" 

"No,"  she  returned,  almost  inaudibly,  "I 
haven't  done  that."  Her  pitiful  eyes  sought 
his  now.  "  I  have  n't  given  away  anything 
that  was  mine.  The  things  that  are  ours 
cannot  be  given  away,  or  taken  away,  or  lost. 
We  break  our  hearts,  all  of  us,  trying  to  keep 
things  that  do  not  belong  to  us — and  to  which 
we  have  no  right." 

"I  know,"  he  answered.  "To  keep  the 
thing  that  is  ours — and  not  to  lose  sight  of  the 
dream ' 

His  thoughts  were  far  away  now,  back  in 
the  dead  years  when  Judith  was  only  a  little 
child.  "It's  the  dream  that's  kept  me 
here,"  he  muttered.  "  Else  why  should  I  stay, 
when  there  are  so  many  ways  out  ?  There  's 
only  one  way  to  enter  the  world  but  there  are 
a  thousand  ways  to  leave  it,  and  a  brave  man, 
as  well  as  a  coward,  may  sometimes  force  the 
door." 

"The  dream  ?"  said  Judith,  idly.  Sub 
merged  in  her  own  pain,  she  scarcely  knew 
what  she  was  saying. 

"Yes.  Judith!  Look!"  He  pointed  to  his 
tiny  front  yard,  where  nothing  grew  but  cedars 


Clotb  ot  (Bolt) 


307 


and  a  maple  or  two  outside.  With  a  compre 
hensive  gesture,  he  swept  the  circle  of  their 
vision.  "  I  could  sit  here,  with  a  camera,  and 
take  a  picture  of  all  this.  What  would  it  be  ? 
The  absolute  truth,  would  n't  it  ?" 

Judith  nodded. 

"And  again,  a  painter  might  sit  here,  with 
canvas  and  colours  at  sunset,  perhaps,  or  in 
early  morning,  and  without  varying  a  line 
or  hiding  a  defect,  make  a  beautiful  picture — 
is  n't  that  so  ?" 

"Surely." 

"  It 's  the  dream  that  makes  the  difference. 
You  've  made  a  painting  of  Carter  and  now 
you  've  come  face  to  face  with  the  photo 
graph.  The  illusion  is  gone,  is  n't  it  ?" 

"Not  quite,"  answered  Judith.  She  was 
pale,  but  bravely  tried  to  smile.  "  I  think  it 's 
going — I  'm  praying  for  it  to  go." 

He  leaned  forward  and  closed  his  hand  over 
hers.  "  Don't  pray  for  it  to  go — pray  rather 
that  you  may  keep  it,  even  though  it  hurts. 
Keep  your  House  of  Life  as  God  gives  it  to 
you,  and  hide  the  dark  places  with  the  tapestry 
of  dreams.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Not  altogether." 

"Then  listen.  Memory  will  take  for  you 
out  of  the  tangle  every  joy  you  've  ever  had. 
She  casts  the  rest  aside.  Try  as  you  may, 
you  cannot  remember  pain — only  the  fact  that 
you  had  it.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Thread  by  thread 


TObat 
flftahcs  the 
Difierence 


308 


H  Meaner  ot  Dreams 


it  is  woven  into  the  fabric  of  your  mortal  life, 
sombrely  perhaps,  but  never  wholly  dark.  As 
you  look  back,  you  can  see  how  you  have 
woven  blindly,  upon  a  design  so  large  that  you 
could  not  comprehend  its  purpose  until  it  had 
slipped  out  of  the  loom.  It  may  not  be  what 
you  would  have  wished  it  to  be,  but  it 's  there — 
the  pattern  you  were  meant  to  weave,  and  with 
that,  perforce,  you  must  be  content. 

"No  matter  what  the  pattern  is,  nor  how 
rough  the  thread,  nor  how  the  loom  demands 
your  endless  labour  because  it 's  in  a  dark 
place  or  because  it 's  difficult  to  move,  if  you 
have  the  dream  in  your  heart,  you  achieve  the 
cloth  of  gold,  and  so,  even  in  the  shadow,  you 
have  something  which  will  catch  the  light, 
when  there  is  any,  and  give  it  back  to  you. 
And- 

"And — ?"  repeated  Judith. 

"And  I  think,  when  all  is  done,  the  Master 
Weaver  will  lead  us  farther  on — we  who  have 
been  weavers  of  dreams  and  have  made 
the  most  from  what  we  have.  If  we  've  put  the 
golden  thread  into  the  fabric,  and  woven  the 
pattern  as  it  was  given  to  us  without  question 
ing  or  repining,  we  shall  not  stop  here — I  'm 
very  sure  of  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Because.  But  that 's  a  woman's  answer, 
not  a  man's.  Judith!  With  the  exception  of 
one  hour,  all  the  happiness  I  've  ever  had  in  my 


Clotb  of  (Bolt) 


309 


life,  I  've  made  for  myself.  I  've  had  to — if 
I  were  to  have  any  at  all." 

He  hesitated,  for  the  merest  instant,  then 
opened  wide  the  secret  door.  "  I  never  told 
you — I  could  n't  tell  anybody,  but  perhaps 
it  may  help  you  now.  When  I  was  twenty- 
five  I  left  the  little  town  I  lived  in  and  started 
to  the  city,  yonder,  to  make  my  fortune,  as 
many  young  men  do.  The  train  was  wrecked 
and — this  happened  to  me. 

"  1 1  was  a  heavenly  day,  all  gold  and  green 
and  violets,  with  every  bird  singing  its  little 
heart  out  in  ecstasy;  clear,  crystalline,  and 
brilliant,  as  if  God  had  just  made  the  whole 
world  and  it  was  new. 

"Without  warning  and  in  the  space  of  a 
minute,  everything  was  changed.  There  was 
a  blinding  crash,  a  blaze  and  a  glare,  the 
pungent  smell  of  smoke,  the  cries  of  hundreds 
of  people  in  torture,  men  running,  with  white 
faces,  the  stroke  of  an  axe  on  fallen  timbers, 
clouds  of  steam,  more  cries — I  need  n't  tell 
you  all  the  horrors. 

"  I  had  seen  that  a  girl  occupied  the  seat  in 
front  of  me,  but  I  had  paid  no  attention  to 
her.  She  and  I  were  pinioned  by  wreckage, 
and  cut  by  broken  glass,  but  before  the  fire 
reached  us,  they  dragged  us  out  and  laid  us 
side  by  side  upon  the  other  side  of  a  grassy 
embankment,  where  we  could  not  see  the  hor 
rors  behind  us  and  where,  if  we  stuffed  our 


tbingtClas 
CbangeO 


3io 


H  Meaver  of  Breams 


tube  ©ne 
TOloman 


fingers  in  our  ears,  we  could  not  hear  very 
much. 

"Naturally  we  got  to  talking,  during  the 
hour  that  elapsed  before  the  relief  train  came 
and  took  the  injured  to  the  hospitals. 

"  I  cannot  remember  a  thing  that  we  said. 
One  of  her  little  feet  was  badly  hurt  and  I 
know  I  managed  to  drag  myself  closer  to  her 
and  bandage  it,  after  a  fashion,  with  a  big  silk 
handkerchief  I  happened  to  have.  I  remember 
she  wore  white,  and  a  white  hat  trimmed  with 
roses,  but  the  white  hat  was  crushed  and 
stained  with  blood  from  a  cut  somewhere  under 
her  heavy  hair. 

"Fool  that  I  was,  I  never  asked  her  name, 
nor  she  mine.  We  simply  took  each  other  for 
granted.  She  was  the  one  woman  who  was 
meant  for  me  since  the  beginning  of  time,  and 
I  was  the  man  who  was  meant  for  her — and  we 
both  knew  it,  though  neither  of  us  said  a 
word.  We  forgot  how  terribly  we  were  hurt: 
we  forgot  everything  but  that. 

"In  the  midst  of  the  horror,  we  had  come 
face  to  face  with  each  other  and  nothing  else 
mattered  but  that.  It  did  not  occur  to  me 
that  we  could  ever  be  separated,  we  simply 
belonged  and  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  I  knew  at  the  first  glance  that  she  was 
neither  married  nor  engaged  for  she  wore  no 
rings — in  fact,  no  jewelry  at  all  except  a 
locket. 


Clotb  of 


"She  was  mine,  Judith,"  he  said,  bitterly, 
"and  through  my  own  absolute  idiocy,  I 
lost  her.  We  were  taken  to  different  hospitals 
and  never  saw  each  other  again.  I  spent  every 
cent  I  had  in  advertising,  I  asked  everybody  I 
knew,  I  even  sent  a  description  of  her  to  the 
police  in  different  cities.  I  did  not  know  the 
name  of  the  town  she  came  from,  for  she  had 
been  on  the  train  since  early  in  the  morning, 
long  before  I  started.  I  sent  a  man  to  every 
town  upon  that  line  of  railroad,  to  see  if  she 
could  be  found.  I  had  absolutely  no  clue  ex 
cept  the  fact  that  she  was  injured  in  that  wreck. 
Even  in  the  list  of  the  injured  at  the  news 
paper  offices,  there  was  n't  the  name  of  a  single 
unmarried  woman,  though  at  every  place  they 
said  the  list  was  not  complete;  that  some  were 
dead  and  unidentified. 

"That's  all  I've  had,"  he  concluded — 
"that  one  perfect  hour,  with  the  woman  God 
meant  for  me  from  the  day  He  said  '  Let  there 
be  light  and  there  was  light.'  From  that,  I  've 
made  my  golden  thread.  Divinely,  by  the 
means  of  it,  I  've  achieved  my  cloth  of  gold. 
And  some  day,  because  I  have  done  the  very 
best  I  could  while  I  was  here,  because  I  Ve 
tried  to  sink  myself  in  service  for  others  when 
ever  it  was  possible  to  do  it — because  I  've 
waited  and  trusted  and  tried  not  to  rebel- 
some  day,  surely,  God  will  bring  us  face  to 
face  again  and  give  us  to  one  another  for  al- 


©ne  per* 
feet  Ibour 


312 

ways,  though  it  may  be  in  some  other  world 
than  this.  It 's  right  that  it  should  be  as  it 
is,  or  it  would  n't  be  so." 

"You  have  faith,"  she  said,  deeply  moved. 

"Yes.  A  weaver  of  dreams  must  have 
faith.  Or  else,  when  the  dream  fails,  it  would 
never  come  back.  Some  day  I  shall  have 
her — or  else  see  that  this  was  all  it  was  meant 
for  us  to  have." 

Judith  hesitated,  with  a  question  upon  her 
lips,  then  she  felt  that  the  door  between  them 
was  closed.  "Thank  you,"  she  said,  grate 
fully,  "for  telling  me.  It  has  helped  me. 
Good-bye." 

She  bent  over  his  chair,  kissed  his  cheek 
softly,  and  went  away — choking  back  the 
tears. 


313 


XXI 


AS  Judith  had  expected,  Margery  said  no  fjowgbe 
more  about  going  away.  She  unpacked 
her  trunks  and  sent  them  up  to  the  attic  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course.  She  made  no  confi 
dences,  nor  did  Chandler  ask  for  any.  Like 
Miss  Cynthia,  he  did  not  care  for  the  sort  of 
confidence  which  is  extracted  by  questions. 
In  her  eyes  an  interrogation  mark  so  much 
resembled  a  corkscrew  that  the  comparison  was 
evident. 

By  observation  and  by  a  subtle  use  of  the 
law  of  suggestion  Miss  Cynthia  usually  found 
out  what  she  wanted  to  know  without  much 
difficulty.  Judith  came  home  from  Chan 
dler's,  very  quiet,  and  not  inclined  to  conversa 
tion.  She  said,  merely,  that  Margery  would 
stay,  and  Miss  Cynthia  guessed  that  Judith 
had  told  them  both  of  the  broken  engagement. 

The  carrier  pigeon  haunted  Judith's  window 
at  sunrise  until,  in  self-defence,  she  moved  her 
possessions  into  a  small  back  room.  She 
burned  the  few  letters  she  had  received  from 
Carter  but  returned  none  of  his  gifts  except  the 


314 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


•Rebellion 

ant> 


ruby  ring,  which  he  promptly  sent  back  to 
her  with  a  note  saying  that  he  wished  her  to 
keep  it,  and  asking  if  there  was  anything  she 
had  given  him  which  she  wanted  him  to  return. 

In  answer,  Judith  asked  for  her  letters,  and, 
one  night,  long  after  Miss  Cynthia  was  asleep, 
she  held  a  private  cremation  in  the  fireplace. 
The  following  day  she  received  a  note  from 
Carter  saying  that  he  had  deeded  the  house  to 
her,  and  that  she  might  do  whatever  she  chose 
with  it. 

Some  correspondence  ensued,  rebellious  upon 
Judith's  side  and  pleading  upon  his.  It  was 
her  house,  he  told  her,  planned  by  her  and 
built  for  her,  and  of  no  conceivable  use  to 
him.  He  wanted  very  much  to  give  it  to  her, 
and  for  the  sake  of  all  that  they  had  been  to 
one  another,  he  asked  the  privilege.  Boyishly 
enough,  he  asked  her  whether  she  were  going  to 
refuse  him  every  slight  opportunity  to  "get 
square"  with  himself. 

Judith  smiled  a  little  at  that,  though  ironi 
cally.  It  is  so  characteristically  masculine  to 
atone  with  material  offerings  for  immaterial 
wrongs — or  rather,  to  attempt  it,  to  pay  for 
tears  with  diamonds  and  for  disappointments 
with  roses  or  pearls ! 

She  composed  several  notes  before  she 
achieved  the  brief  line  which  she  finally  sent, 
to  the  effect  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  her,  either, 
but  that  if  it  would  make  him  any  happier, 


B&justments 


315 


she  would  accept  it  for  the  time  being,  and  make 
some  final  disposal  of  it  later  on. 

Various  plans  occurred  to  her,  ranging  all 
the  way  from  a  summer  home  for  convalescent 
women  to  a  refuge  for  stray  cats.  With  a 
subconscious  idea  of  hardening  herself,  she 
arrayed  herself  one  afternoon  in  the  gown  she 
had  worn  the  day  Carter  asked  her  to  marry 
him — and  which  she  had  put  away  sacredly  that 
night, — slipped  the  ruby  ring  upon  another 
finger,  put  on  the  silver  chain  with  the  abalone 
pearl  pendant,  and,  with  due  announcement  to 
Miss  Cynthia,  went  over  to  look  at  the  house. 

Nobody  but  the  workmen  had  been  there 
since  the  fatal  day,  more  than  a  month  ago. 
She  went  in  by  way  of  the  back  door,  winced 
a  little  when  she  entered  the  dining-room, 
and,  with  a  wild  pain  at  her  heart,  opened  the 
door  leading  into  the  living-room,  where,  last 
time,  she  had  seen — she  shuddered  even  at  the 
thought  of  it. 

"There  's  nothing  there,  Judith,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  It 's  all  gone — quite  gone.  There  's 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

She  forced  herself  to  stand  where  Carter 
and  Margery  had  stood,  until  the  hurt  had 
somewhat  subsided.  She  went  over  to  the 
inglenook,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and 
sat  down  to  rest.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  she 
saw  the  cushion  which  Margery  had  made. 

At  first,  she  wondered  where  it  could  have 


Since  tbe 

ffatal  £>ag 


316 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Ubefflagic 
(Bone 


come  from,  then  she  remembered  that  at 
different  times  when  she  had  been  playing 
with  Chandler,  she  had  seen  a  bit  of  pale  green 
linen  in  Margery's  hands  as  she  worked  out 
side,  upon  the  shaded  veranda.  The  clover 
blossoms  were  like  Margery,  too.  Margery 
had  come  over,  probably,  to  put  the  cushion 
in  the  house  and  had  happened  to  meet  Car 
ter.  It  had  not  been  planned,  then — it  was 
purely  accidental.  There  was  a  certain  re 
lief  in  the  thought,  even  though  the  dice  of 
chance  had  been  thrown  against  her. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  house  was  entirely 
different — the  magic  was  gone.  The  exquisite 
emotion  that  glorified  every  rafter  and  gilded 
even  the  humblest  commonplaces  of  construc 
tion  had  died  with  no  hope  of  resurrection. 
The  fireplace  that  had  once  been  a  household 
altar,  where  the  finer  flames  of  the  spirit 
might  mingle  with  the  breath  of  transmuted 
pine,  was  only  a  fireplace,  now — its  secret 
charm  had  utterly  vanished.  The  whole 
place  had  the  emptiness  of  a  mirror  which 
has  nothing  to  reflect.  Desolation  had  come 
upon  every  nook  and  corner,  as  though  the 
little  house  itself  were  mourning  for  its  lost 

joy- 

"  Little  sunset  House  of  Hearts, 

Standing  all  alone; 
I  could  come  and  sweep  the  leaves 

From  your  stepping  stone — 


BOjustments 


317 


"  I  and  he  could  light  your  fires, 

Laughing  at  the  rain, 
But  oh,  it 's  far  to  Happiness 
A  short  way  back  again!  " 

Judith  murmured  the  words  to  herself  as  she 
sat  there,  holding  the  cushion.  There  was  a 
definite  relationship  existing  between  her  and 
the  house  which  had  been  built  for  her.  There 
had  been  light  and  life  and  music  in  her  heart, 
just  as  there  was  to  be  in  the  house,  and  he 
who  had  summoned  both  into  being  had  gone 
away,  leaving  only  echoes,  and  little  memories 
that,  like  frightened  children,  tiptoed  from 
place  to  place,  dreading  the  sound  of  their  own 
footfalls. 

Merged  into  an  unspeakable  sadness,  the 
sharp,  stabbing  pain  of  the  preceding  week  was 
mercifully  eased.  Like  a  river,  winding  a 
tortuous  way  among  sharp  cliffs,  reaching  at 
last  its  ultimate  sea,  her  soul  had  come  to  its 
peace.  Memory  would  return  at  times,  of 
course, — she  knew  that, — to  torment  her  with 
visions  of  what  might  have  been,  but,  none 
the  less,  she  had  outgrown  her  environment 
and  was  on  her  way  to  something  altogether 
different. 

What  Chandler  had  said,  the  other  day, 
came  back  to  her  clearly.  She  must  weave 
according  to  the  pattern  laid  upon  her  loom. 
Later,  when  she  had  worked  out  this  single 


Dec  Soul 
at  peace 


3«Mtb 

Seee 
Clearls 


episode,  and  saw  it  in  perspective,  she  could 
understand  the  design,  but  not  now.  She  must 
go  on,  with  the  dream  in  her  heart,  and  put 
golden  threads  into  her  fabric  as  she  could. 

"The  way  of  life  is  wonderful;  it  is  by  aban 
donment."  The  words  flashed  upon  her  con 
sciousness  as  though  someone  had  spoken 
them  aloud.  Was  that  Chandler  ?  No  — 
Aunt  Cynthia  had  read  it  aloud  a  few  days  ago, 
as  she  was  turning  the  well-worn  pages  of  her 
beloved  Emerson  in  search  of  something  else. 

Judith  walked  home  slowly,  more  nearly 
happy  than  she  had  been  since  the  day  the 
truth  burst  upon  her  with  the  vividness  of 
a  lightning  flash.  No  longer  inextricably  a 
part  of  it,  she  could  see  clearly.  She  had  seen 
Carter  not  as  he  was,  but  as  he  might  be,  ac 
cording  to  the  way  of  lovers.  The  reality, 
jarring  upon  her  vision,  had  been  her  fault, 
not  his. 

From  what  Chandler  had  told  her,  she 
realised  that  when  divinity  approaches,  the 
blinding  glory  of  the  god  shines  afar  into  the 
hearts  of  those  to  whom  he  comes,  long  be 
fore  they  may  look  upon  his  face.  He  had 
dwelt  upon  the  sense  of  completion,  upon  the 
fact  that  they  two  had  been  meant  for  one 
another  since  the  beginning  of  time  —  that 
nothing  mattered  but  that.  It  was  not  out 
side  of  Judith's  understanding,  but  it  was  be 
yond  her  experience.  She  and  Carter  had 


Bftfustments 


319 


come  to  love,  along  the  pleasant  ways  of 
friendship,  which,  indeed,  the  god  may  some 
times  travel,  though  more  often  he  chooses 
unfrequented  byways  and  secret  passages, 
where  strangers  may  meet,  with  something  of 
his  light  reflected  upon  either  face. 

She  imagined  that  Carter  had  recognised 
Margery  almost  as  soon  as  Chandler  had 
known  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  one 
woman.  How  hard  it  must  have  been  for 
Carter,  trying  to  be  loyal,  so  sternly  bidding 
himself  "be  decent!"  For  the  first  time,  she 
pitied  him,  and  realised  that  what  is  hard  for 
us  is  seldom  altogether  easy  for  the  others; 
that  no  situation  arising  in  our  complex  life 
can  possibly  involve  one  individual  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  everyone  else. 

When  she  reached  home,  she  almost  collided 
with  Miss  Cynthia,  who,  with  crutch  and  cane, 
was  taking  a  brief  constitutional  upon  the 
gravelled  paths  in  the  garden. 

"  Have  you  found  anything  ?"  asked  the  old 
lady. 

"Yes,"  smiled  Judith.     "My  balance." 

"  Priceless  possession,"  observed  Miss  Cyn 
thia,  dropping  into  a  garden  chair  that  was 
sorely  in  need  of  paint  and  a  new  rocker.  "  I 
always  feel  sorry  for  a  meteor  when  I  see  it 
flaming  through  the  heavens,  presumably 
jerked  out  of  its  orbit  by  some  superior 
force." 


"CUbat 


320 


"Carter  gave  me  the  house,"  said  Judith, 
calmly. 

"  Yes  ?    What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    What  would  you  do  ?" 

"  Sell  it  and  give  him  the  money — or  endow 
a  bed  in  a  hospital  with  it." 

"He  would  n't  take  the  money." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  he  might  be  glad  to  get 
the  bed,  some  day  when  he  was  sick  or  very 
tired." 

"Perhaps."  Judith  had  not  thought  of 
that.  "  I  don't  know  just  what  to  do." 

"  Don't  do  anything,  my  dear,  until  you  're 
absolutely  certain  that  you  want  to  do  it. 
The  way  opens  before  us  when  we  're  meant  to 
take  it — I  've  learned  that,  if  nothing  else, 
during  my  five  and  forty  years." 

Judith  bent  to  put  her  cool  cheek  against 
Miss  Cynthia's  flushed  face.  "  How  have  you 
learned  so  much,  dear,  shut  away  from  the 
world  for  so  long  ?" 

"  By  keeping  my  eyes  open,"  snapped  Miss 
Cynthia,  "and  my  mouth  shut  when  I  could." 

Chandler  was  keeping  his  eyes  open,  also, 
but  he  saw  nothing,  save  a  listless  and  silent 
Margery,  with  dark  circles  under  her  eyes, 
tense  and  strung  almost  to  the  breaking  point. 
Night  after  night  during  his  own  wakeful 
hours,  he  saw  the  light  from  her  room  stream 
ing  out  upon  the  cedars  and  heard  the  wakeful 


adjustments 


321 


murmurs  of  the  little  birds  asleep  in  the  scented       centre 
boughs,  wondering  if  the  day  had  come  so 
soon. 

She  ate  almost  nothing  and  the  roses*  were 
gone  from  her  cheeks.  She  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  something  which  did  not  come. 
Day  by  day,  she  watched  the  postoffice  fever 
ishly,  but  there  was  never  a  letter  for  her. 
Judith  came  on  Monday  and  Thursday  after 
noons  as  usual,  her  beautiful  serenity  un 
broken,  her  calmness  and  poise  unshaken. 
Secretly  Margery  marvelled  at  her,  and,  at 
length,  made  up  her  mind  that  she  could  not 
have  loved  Carter  at  all. 

Chandler  wondered  at  Judith,  too,  but 
neither  of  them  made  any  reference  to  the 
past.  As  a  pebble,  cast  into  the  depths,  may 
reach  by  means  of  ever-widening  circles  some 
distant,  unseen  shore,  Judith  was  at  peace 
again,  the  ripple  having  gone  beyond  her  ken. 

The  centre  of  the  tumult  was  Carter  him 
self,  restless,  remorseful,  and  almost  unable 
to  work.  Every  day  he  told  himself  that 
he  had  done  the  best  he  could,  that  however 
deeply  he  might  have  been  at  fault,  he  had 
atoned  every  way  that  was  within  his  power. 
His  conscience  was  at  rest,  but  he  was  far  from 
happy.  He  missed  Judith  more  keenly  than 
he  had  ever  thought  possible;  he  hungered  for 
the  old,  happy  comradeship  and  even  for  Miss 
Cynthia's  stimulating  talk.  At  times  he 


322 


H  TKHeax>er  of  Dreams 


after 
fltgbt 


thought  of  going  up  to  see  Judith,  for  she  had 
assured  him  that  they  would  be  friends. 
Reason  told  him  there  was  nothing  against 
it,  but  instinct  kept  him  away. 

Night  after  night  Judith  was  awakened  by  his 
car  rushing  past  the  house  at  top  speed.  Night 
after  night,  too,  Margery  stirred  uneasily  in 
her  fitful  sleep  at  the  sound  of  a  distant  auto 
mobile,  which  never  came  so  near  as  the  cross 
roads.  Sometimes  it  stopped,  far  outside 
the  circle  of  light  made  by  Chandler's  lantern, 
and,  after  a  long  time,  turned  and  went  back, 
along  the  river  road. 

Margery  did  not  guess,  but  Judith  knew. 
She  knew,  too,  that  he  spent  an  occasional  re 
morseful  evening  upon  the  steps  of  the  House 
of  Hearts.  Such  small  things  as  the  tracks  of 
his  car  in  the  road  and  an  occasional  cigarette 
stub  betrayed  him. 

Hoping  yet  fearing  to  see  him,  Margery 
never  went  out  of  the  yard  during  the  hours 
he  might  possibly  be  at  home.  Once,  during 
the  day,  she  had  walked  past  Mrs.  Warner's 
but  had  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  the 
left.  She  was  too  miserable  even  to  feel  the 
pair  of  sharp  eyes  that  took  account  of  her 
passing,  or  to  guess  that  she  had  stirred  up  a 
sharp  resentment  against  herself  that  lasted 
well  into  the  next  day.  Carter  had  told  Aunt 
Belinda  that  his  engagement  was  broken  and 
immediately  had  started  for  his  train,  allowing 


Bfcjustments 


323 


neither  time  for  question  or  comment.  Aunt 
Belinda  had  at  once  repeated  the  fact  to  Uncle 
Henry,  and  added,  viciously,  quite  of  her  own 
accord:  "  It 's  her  that 's  done  it." 

In  his  masculine  innocence,  Uncle  Henry 
supposed  that  "her"  meant  Judith,  as  it  had 
heretofore.  He  merely  said  "Jes  so,  Mother, 
jes  so,"  and  resumed  his  nap. 

Feeling  himself  utterly  helpless,  Chandler 
watched  Margery  from  day  to  day  with 
anxious  love.  Having  found,  at  last,  that  he 
did  not  intend  to  question  her,  she  became  more 
at  ease  with  him  and  did  not  avoid  him  so 
much.  Often  she  lingered  downstairs  long 
past  her  usual  bedtime,  talking  indifferently 
or  not  at  all. 

One  night  she  asked,  pitifully,  "  Do  we  always 
get  the  things  we  want  the  most  ?" 

"Not  always,"  the  deep  voice  answered, 
"  but  we  get  the  things  that  are  meant  for  us 
to  have." 

"  Then  we  should  n't  want  what  we  don't 
get,"  she  said,  half  to  herself. 

"No,  but  we  do." 

For  some  reason  which  he  had  never  been 
able  to  define,  Margery  seemed  very  near  to 
Chandler.  Sometimes  he  was  forced  to  re 
mind  himself  very  sternly  that  she  was  not  his 
own  flesh  and  blood,  he  yearned  so  unspeakably 
for  the  good-night  kiss  she  never  offered  to  give. 

"  Father  used    to   say,"   sighed   Margery, 


Ube 
Ublngs 

UCleTOlant 


324 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Some 
TRUomcn 


"that  wanting  was  life  and  satisfaction  was 
death.  I  don't  know  what  he  meant  by  it, 
do  you  ?" 

"  If  wanting  is  life,  I  know  what  that  is — 
I  'm  very  fully  alive,  if  that 's  the  test.  He 
had  the  epigram  habit,  did  n't  he  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  guess  so."  Margery's 
thoughts  were  far  away  again  now.  Pre 
sently  she  turned  to  him  again. 

"Can  you  remember  your  mother  ?" 

"Yes.    Can't  you?" 

"No.    She  died  when  I  was  born." 

"  That 's  so,"  Chandler  answered,  softly. 
"  I  'd  forgotten." 

"  Father  did  n't.  I  can  remember  how  some 
women  used  to  pet  me  and  give  me  things  and 
say  what  a  dear  child  I  was.  I  used  to  think 
it  was  the  same  as  having  lots  of  mothers, 
but  they  changed  very  quickly.  One  day, 
I  'd  be  the  dearest  child  that  ever  lived,  and 
the  next,  though  I  had  n't  done  anything  at 
all,  all  I  'd  get  would  be:  'Run  away  child. 
I  'm  busy.'  I  see  now  that  they  wanted  to 
marry  father." 

Chandler  laughed.  "  But  you  did  n't  know 
it  then." 

"No,"  said  Margery,  with  her  small  hands 
tightly  clenched.  "  I  wish  I  had.  I  'd  have 
stirred  things  up." 

"  You  're  vicious,  dear.  Your  father  did  n't 
need  you  to  protect  him." 


adjustments 


325 


"No,"  answered  the  girl,  softening  a  little. 
"  I  guess  he  did  n't." 

"  I  've  wished  so  often  I  could  remember 
my  mother,"  she  went  on,  in  a  different  tone. 
"  Father  used  to  talk  to  me  about  her  some 
times,  until  1  felt  that  I  almost  knew  her,  but 
I  guess  it  is  n't  the  same.  He  told  me  how 
lovely  she  was — he  was  always  sorry,  I  think, 
that  I  looked  like  him  instead  of  her.  He 
said  that  whenever  I  saw  a  woman  whom  I 
admired,  I  must  always  remember  that  my  own 
mother  was  lovelier;  that  if  anybody  was  gentle 
and  kind,  mother  was  more  kind  and  more 
gentle,  that  other  people  might  be  very  charm 
ing  but  that  mother  was  perfect.  When  I 
was  bad  he  always  said:  'Why  Margery! 
The  daughter  of  your  mother  doing  a  thing 
like  that  ?  I  'm  surprised!'  He  used  to  tell 
me  that  I  'd  make  mother  feel  badly  even  up 
in  Heaven  if  I  was  n't  just  what  she  wanted  me 
to  be.  I  used  to  say  my  prayers  to  mother, 
and  father  let  me  do  it— he  said  mother  was 
with  God,  though  nobody  knew  where  God 
was,  and  that  He  would  listen  to  her,  if  not 
to  me.  Do  you  think  it  makes  any  difference 
whom  you  pray  to  ?" 

"No.  I  believe  a  real  prayer  always  goes 
straight." 

"  I  don't  see  why  mother  had  to  die,"  Mar 
gery  continued,  after  a  pause.  "Fatherdid  n't, 
either.  He  said  she  was  never  ill  a  day  in 


flDargenj's 
fflotber 


326 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


H  TOtecfe 


her  life,  except  the  time  she  was  hurt  in  the 
railroad  accident." 

"Railroad  accident!"  he  echoed. 

"  Yes — did  father  never  tell  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Chandler,  his  lips  barely  moving. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Margery  had  come 
to  him  as  a  sort  of  divine  compensation — bone 
of  the  bone  and  flesh  of  the  flesh  of  the  woman 
he  had  loved  and  lost  ? 

"It  was  a  long  time  before  they  were  mar 
ried,"  Margery  was  saying.  "She  was  com 
ing  to  the  city  from  some  little  town  out  in 
the  country — I  don't  remember  the  name  of 
it — and  right  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
there  was  a  wreck,  and  mother  was  terribly 
cut  by  glass  and  her  foot  was  broken,  but  she 
got  well  all  right.  There  was  n't  even  a  scar, 
but  she  never  could  bear  to  go  anywhere  on  a 
train  afterward." 

"Naturally  not,"  Chandler  answered.  His 
lips  were  dry  and  stiff.  "  Margery,  have  you 
a  picture  of  your  mother  ?" 

"  Yes — of  course.  Did  I  never  show  it  to  you?" 

"No — neither  you  nor  your  father.  I  've 
— I  've  often  wondered,"  he  stammered, 
*  what  she  looked  like." 

"I '11  get  it." 

She  went  upstairs  and,  after  what  seemed 
an  age,  returned  with  a  framed  photograph. 
Chandler  snatched  it  from  her,  his  hands 
icy  cold. 


HDjustments 


327 


"  I  forgot  you  could  n't  see  out  here," 
Margery  was  saying.  "  I  '11  get  a  candle." 

The  light  flickered,  died  down,  then  shone 
brilliantly  upon  the  pictured  face — the  grave 
sweet  eyes,  the  tender  mouth,  the  soft  hair 
that  curled  low  upon  the  forehead.  He  looked 
at  it  long  and  earnestly. 

"  Is  n't  she  lovely  ?"  Margery  asked.  "  But 
not  a  bit  like  me." 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  new  to  Margery, 
"  she  is  n't  a  bit  like  you.  Nor  like  anybody 
else  I  've  ever  seen." 

He  lay  awake  that  night  long  after  Margery 
slept,  thinking.  Of  her,  still  existing  some 
where,  as  herself,  or  as  wind  and  grass  and 
sea,  he  humbly  sought  forgiveness.  It  was  of 
course  impossible  that  she  could  have  mar 
ried.  Having  once  seen  the  sun,  as  he  had, 
she  would  never  accept  starlight;  she  would 
wait,  as  he  waited,  for  dawn. 


TTbe 
pictured 


328 


Waiting 

foe  t>et 

©wn 


XXII 

"from  tbe  Tflnvarstng  Star" 

DIM  and  far,  as  from  some  distant  army, 
came  the  first  bugles  of  the  frost.  Golden 
rain  fell  from  the  willows  and  birches,  and  now 
and  then,  amid  the  green-gold  splendours  of  a 
sunlit  maple,  a  scarlet  leaf  appeared.  Back 
in  the  woods,  the  Little  People,  in  fur,  were 
making  ready  for  Winter,  and  the  Little 
People,  in  feathers,  had  already  begun  their 
long  night  voyages  upon  cool  seas  of  air,  to 
some  more  friendly  clime. 

Margery  was  still  waiting,  more  listless  and 
more  weary  than  ever,  for  that  which  did  not 
come.  During  the  cool  evenings  Chandler  sat 
in  the  library,  among  his  beloved  books,  but 
Margery  preferred  the  veranda — perhaps  be 
cause  she  wanted  to  be  alone. 

Subconsciously,  she  had  absorbed  some 
thing  from  Chandler's  dominant  faith.  The 
things  that  were  hers  could  never  be  taken 
from  her  or  lost.  She  tried,  honestly,  not  to 
want  anything  which  was  not  hers. 

She  sat  on  the  top  step  of  the  porch,  lean 
ing  against  the  pillar,  looking  out  into  the 


"dfrom  tbe  IHnvarping  Star" 


329 


sombre  shadows  of  the  cedars  and  beyond 
them,  to  the  cross-roads,  where  Chandler's 
light  burned,  moonlight  nights  and  all.  High 
above  the  circle  of  light  thrown  by  the  lantern 
upon  the  gravel,  the  little  blue  sailor  stood 
at  attention,  waiting  for  a  wind  to  which  he 
might  answer,  but  there  was  none. 

The  night  was  exquisitely  still,  save  for  the 
crickets  that  fiddled  in  the  grass,  unmindful 
of  the  fact  that  even  fairy  instruments  must 
soon  forget  their  merry  tunes.  The  moon 
rose  behind  the  cedars  and  flooded  the  earth 
with  the  clear,  golden  light  of  early  Autumn, 
throwing  sharp  shadows  against  the  house. 

Chandler  picked  up  his  violjn,  and,  upon 
muted  strings,  played  to  himself  that  old 
sweet  serenade,  beloved  of  lovers  since  the 
day  it  was  written: 

"All  the  stars  keep  watch  in  heaven 

While  I  sing  to  thee 
And  the  night  for  love  was  given — 

Darling  come  to  me, 

Darling  come  to  me." 

"Oh,"  breathed  Margery,  in  pain.  Her 
small  hands  clenched  themselves  tightly,  and 
she  choked  back  a  sob.  Why,  of  all  things, 
should  the  man  play  that  ? 

And  then,  quite  simply  and  inevitably,  like 
most  other  miracles,  Carter  came,  at  the  first 
moment  when  he  felt  that  he  could,  and  at 


Hn  ©Iti 
SerenaSe 


330 


H  Weaver  of  2>reams 


TOlarm 
Bgain 


the  same  time  "keep  square"  with  himself. 
Margery  heard  the  car  when  it  turned  at  the 
river  road,  and  knew  that  it  must  be  his,  for 
automobiles  were  not  common  in  Edgerton. 
As  it  purred  steadily  toward  her,  it  seemed 
that  the  loud  beating  of  her  heart  must  sound 
above  the  music  within.  When  it  stopped  at 
the  gate  and  Carter  got  out,  she  tried  to  go  to 
the  gate  to  meet  him,  but  could  not.  She 
sank  back  upon  the  step,  leaned  heavily 
against  the  pillar — and  waited. 

The  little  hand  she  gave  him  was  cold. 
"Aren't  you  chilly  out  here?"  he  asked. 
"Shan't  I  get  you  some  sort  of  a  wrap  ?" 

"No,"  Margery  stammered.  "I — I  'm 
quite  warm."  And  indeed  she  was,  for  long 
forgotten  roses  bloomed  upon  her  cheeks  again, 
and  the  young  blood  danced  through  her 
veins. 

"  Do  you  want  to  come  out  in  the  car  ?" 

"No.     I  'd  rather  stay  here." 

"So  would  I." 

From  within  came  the  music  of  the  serenade, 
crying  out  from  the  violin  in  passionate  long 
ing,  thrilling  from  the  desolation  of  the  man's 
soul  to  the  strings  that  gave  it  voice. 

"How  is  he?"  asked  Carter,  inclining  his 
head  toward  the  open  door. 

"All. right.  Just  the  same  as  he  always 
is." 

There  was  silence  again,  save  for  the  sere- 


33i 
nade.     When   it   ceased,    Carter   leaned   for- 

IRcason 

ward,  out  of  the  shadow. 

"You  know,  don't  you,  Margery,  that  my 
engagement  is  broken  ?"  The  tone  was  very 
gentle,  such  as  a  man  would  use  in  speaking  to 
a  child. 

"Yes." 

"  Did — do  you  know  why  ?" 

"Yes.    She  told  me." 

"Oh!"  He  was  astonished,  for  that  was 
not  like  Judith — not  at  all.  Then  he  took 
second  thought. 

"What  did  she  tell  you?" 

"Oh — nothing,  except  that  you  weren't 
suited  to  one  another  and  found  it  out  in  time. 
She  said  lots  of  people  who  were  n't  suited 
to  one  another  did  n't  find  it  out  until  after 
they  were  married,  and  she  was  glad  it  had 
happened  now  instead  of  later." 

Carter  nodded.  That  was  more  like  Judith. 
"She's  right,"  he  said,  "she  always  is  right 
about  everything — perfectly,  unmistakably, 
unfailingly  right." 

"I — I  was — "  Margery  hesitated,  then 
stopped. 

"  Yes  ?    You  were —  ?    Please  go  on." 

"  I  was  afraid,  at  first — when  she  first  told 
me,  you  know — that  I  might  have  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it,  so  I  asked  her." 

"And  she  said ?" 

"She  said  I  hadn't,  but  I  couldn't  help 


332 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Be  plain 

as  Unya 

tbina 


feeling  badly.  That — that  day — in  the  house 
— you  know — I — I — thought  I  heard  some 
body  come  in  at  the  back  door,  when " 

"  Imagination,  Margery.  Nobody  came  in." 
For  one  of  them  at  least,  he  said  to  himself, 
their  first  divine  moment  should  be  kept  sacred. 

"And— and  then— the  letter " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  quickly,  "  the  letter  ?  What 
of  that  ?" 

"Algernon  got  one  page  of  it  and  chewed  it 
up,  and  she  took  it  away  from  him.  Mr. 
Chandler  said  she  said  she  did  n't  see  it,  but 
when  I  got  it  out  of  the  waste-basket  where 
she  put  it,  there  was  one  paragraph  left — as 
plain  as  anything." 

"Which  paragraph  ?" 

"The  one  about  her.  Where  you  said  how 
fine  she  was,  and  all  that,  and  that  she  must  n't 
be  hurt,  and  that  you  must  go  on,  and  not  let 
her  know  that  you  had  changed." 

Carter  got  up  and  started  toward  the  gate, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Margery  followed 
him — a  little  white  ghost,  slipping  noiselessly 
through  the  shadow.  She  put  a  pleading  hand 
upon  his  arm.  "Don't,"  she  said  brokenly. 
"You're — you're  not  angry  with  me?" 

He  turned  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
"Angry  with  you  ?  Oh,  Margery,  Margery, 
Margery!" 

"Don't,"  she  said  again.  She  put  her 
hands  up  to  his  shoulders  and  pushed  him 


jfrom  tbe  'dwarfing  Star 


333 


back.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  was  care 
less  with  the  letter,  because  I  was  n't.  I  was 
reading  it — I  read  it  every  day  and  sometimes 
in  the  night.  It  was — all  I  had.  And — I  was 
crying,  so  I  did  n't  see  Algernon  get  it.  Do 
— do  you  think  she  could  have  seen  it  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not  if  she  said  she  did  n't." 
None  the  less  Carter  knew  now  why  Judith  had 
refused  either  to  understand  or  to  forgive. 
He  appreciated,  too,  her  shielding  of  Margery. 
Only  a  fine  woman  could  have  done  that. 

Yet  it  did  not  matter — nothing  mattered 
any  more,  save  that  he  held  Margery  in  his 
arms.  Unresisting  now,  she  yielded  him  her 
lips.  All  the  hunger  of  the  years  without  her 
was  as  chaff  in  the  divine  fire  that  burned  in  his 
blood.  It  was  one  of  those  rapturous  in 
stants  in  which  man  realises  that  as  truly  as 
God  is  love,  Heaven  is  immortality — with 
love. 

"  Darling,  dearest,  beloved — sweetheart," 
he  murmured.  "  Do  you  care  ?"  Crushed  to 
his,  her  lips  answered  "  Yes." 

Chandler  had  begun  the  serenade  again,  but 
it  sounded  faint  and  far  away.  "Say  you 
love  me,"  Carter  pleaded,  holding  her  so  close 
that  she  almost  cried  out  with  the  delicious 
pain  of  it. 

"  I  do." 

"  Do  what,  darling  ?" 

"  Love  you." 


Bn  fn= 

stant  of 
•Rapture 


334 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


•Retiring 
but 


"How  much?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — there  are  n't  any  words 
for  it.  There's  nothing — anywhere — but 
this." 

"No,  and  there  never  has  been,  and  never 
will  be  again.  Listen,  dear.  The  first  time 
our  eyes  met  I  loved  you,  but  I  did  n't  know 
it,  because  I  was  blind.  All  my  life  I  've 
wanted  you,  and  all  my  life  I  've  been  trying 
to  find  you.  Every  step  I  've  taken  has  led 
me  to  you,  through  devious  and  winding  ways. 
And  then  when  you  came,  and  I  did  know,  I 
fought  against  it  and  struggled,  but  it  was  no 
use.  There  's  never  any  use  of  that,  when  a 
man  comes  face  to  face  with  the  one  woman. 

"  Back  in  the  beginning  of  things,  Margery, 
you  were  made  for  me  to  love,  and  I  for  you. 
I  belong  to  you  just  as  your  hands  and  eyes 
do.  You  're  mine — mine — mine!" 

There  was  a  murmur  of  little  dead  leaves  at 
their  feet.  The  blue  sailor  turned,  smiling, 
to  look  at  those  who  stood  so  closely  together 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cedar,  but  quickly  turned 
his  back  again,  as  became  a  gentleman  of 
politeness  and  discretion.  From  within,  like 
an  undertone  of  the  serenade,  came  emptiness 
and  longing,  crying  out  from  the  violin. 

"Is  it  for  always  ?"  she  asked,  as  he  drew 
her  closer  still. 

"  For  always,  darling.  For  this  life  and  the 
next  and  for  all  the  lives  to  come — till  death 


From  tbe  mnvargfng  star" 


335 


and  even  beyond  it,  Margery — you  're  mine — 
mine — mine!" 

The  music  died  away  in  a  low,  sweet  chord. 
Afar,  in  the  withered  grass,  the  cricket  paused 
to  rest.  Blown  stars  drifted  across  the  meas 
ureless  seas  of  space  between  the  clouds  and 
moon.  As  she  had  said,  there  was  nothing 
anywhere  but  this.  In  the  scented  shadow  of 
the  cedar  there  was  only  the  fragrance  of  the 
lips  that  clung  to  his,  and  the  sound  of  his 
own  heart,  surging  with  the  nameless  rapture 
that  comes  but  once. 

Because  the  night  was  cool,  Miss  Cynthia 
had  a  fire,  but  there  was  no  other  light  in  her 
room.  By  contrast,  the  flood  of  Autumn 
moonlight  that  made  the  windows  blue  was 
chill  and  desolate,  sending  a  shiver  through 
Miss  Cynthia  that  impelled  her  to  draw  her 
chair  closer  to  the  fire. 

Her  purple  velvet  gown  was  heavy  with  lace, 
and  over  her  shoulder  she  had  drawn  the  white 
Egyptian  scarf,  heavy  with  spangles.  Being 
in  the  mood  to  shine,  she  had  borrowed  Judith's 
band  of  brilliants,  to  gleam  amid  the  silvery 
masses  of  her  hair.  At  her  throat  was  the 
locket  she  had  taken  from  the  trunk  the  other 
day, — of  black  enamel,  with  a  diamond  cross 
in  high  relief,  bordered  by  discoloured  pearls. 

Judith  had  never  seen  it  before,  until  the  day 
Miss  Cynthia  took  it  out  of  the  trunk,  with 


fln  purple 
Velvet 


336 


H  Weaver  ot  Breams 


purple 

ana 
Scarlet 


the  blood-stained  handkerchief  that  had  af 
fected  her  so  strangely.  Something  lay  be 
hind  it  all — so  much  was  certain.  There  was 
a  grave  in  Miss  Cynthia's  heart,  too,  as  there 
was  in  her  own. 

The  firelight  brought  Judith  a  certain  warm 
sense  of  intimacy.  It  was  a  night  for  confi 
dences,  to  be  bestowed  upon  those  who  do  not 
ask.  Judith  leaned  forward  and  methodically 
stirred  the  fire.  The  flames  leaped  up,  send 
ing  a  glow  to  the  stag's  head  over  the  mantel 
and  an  arrow  of  light  to  a  bit  of  old  silver  in 
the  cabinet  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Not  so  much  light,  my  dear,"  warned  Miss 
Cynthia.  "We  swear  at  one  another,  even 
in  total  darkness." 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  you  were  going  to 
blossom  out  like  a  pansy,  in  purple  velvet?" 
asked  Judith,  with  a  laugh.  "I  have  plenty 
of  other  gowns — I  need  n't  have  worn  scarlet." 

"  I  wore  this  because  it  was  warm,  and  I  was 
cold." 

"  I  chose  this  because  it  looked  warm," 
Judith  returned,  "but  you're  not  deceiving 
me,  dear.  With  your  arms  bare  to  the  elbow 
and  your  neck  and  shoulders  clothed  simply 
in  a  scarf  and  a  locket,  you  can't  be  unusually 
warm." 

"Well?"  challenged  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a 
mischievous  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  put  it  on  because  you  knew  you  'd 


"jfrom  fbe  IHnvarging  Star"  337 

be  beautiful  in  it,  but  it  seems  a  pity  to  waste 
a  royal  robe  like  that  upon  a  mere  woman. 
If  Carter —  '  Judith  paused  to  stir  the  fire 
again.  "  I  suppose  Carter  will  marry  Margery, 
eventually." 

In  the  glow  of  the  fire  Judith's  lovely,  serene 
face  did  not  seem  to  change.  She  spoke  in 
the  tone  one  uses  in  speaking  of  the  dead,  who 
have  been  dearly  loved. 

Miss  Cynthia's  answer  was  irrelevant,  yet 
in  a  way  much  to  the  point.  "  Some  men  re 
quire  to  be  loved  by  a  resourceful  and  know- 
ledgeful  woman — others  by  a  squab." 

"Is  Margery  a  squab?"  queried  Judith, 
without  much  interest. 

"  I  think  so.  Carter  raises  'em,  does  n't 
he  ?  The  change  is  quite  natural.  He  '11  be 
true  to  her — that  is,  I  hope  he  will." 

"What  is  it  to  be  true?  To  continually 
fight  yourself,  and  resist  every  temptation 
that  comes  your  way  ?" 

"Somebody  said  that  temptations  were 
made  to  be  yielded  to,  but  I  don't  go  quite 
as  far  as  that.  Still,  it  is  n't  possible  that 
everything  you  ever  want  to  do  is  radically 
wrong." 

"No,"  Judith  agreed.     "I  suppose  not." 

"I  wonder,"  Miss  Cynthia  resumed,  after 
a  little,  "  if  any  man  was  ever  true  to  one  wo 
man — I  mean  so  absolutely  hers  that  he  never 
thought  of  anybody  else  after  he  saw  her." 


338 


H  Weaver  ot  Dreams 


©ne  time 


"Yes,"  said  Judith,  dreamily,  "I  know  of 
one.  Mr.  Chandler." 

"  He 's  lame,"  commented  Miss  Cynthia, 
wickedly.  "  He  can't  go  out." 

"  But  this  happened  at  the  time  he  was  made 
lame.  I  wonder — he  did  n't  say  I  should  n't 
tell  anybody.  It  can't  matter  if  I  tell 
you." 

"No,"  Miss  Cynthia  returned,  moodily, 
"what  people  tell  me  does  n't  matter." 

"  He  was  on  his  way  to  the  city,"  continued 
Judith,  "to  make  his  fortune.  He  was  only 
twenty-five.  In  the  seat  in  front  of  him  was 
a  girl  in  a  white  gown,  with  a  white  hat 
trimmed  with  pink  roses.  The  train  was 
wrecked  and  they  two  were  caught  by  falling 
timbers,  and  taken  out,  terribly  hurt,  just  be 
fore  the  fire  reached  that  car.  For  an  hour 
they  lay  on  a  grassy  bank,  out  of  sight  and 
even  out  of  hearing,  if  they  put  their  fingers 
in  their  ears.  They  talked,  and  Mr.  Chan 
dler  knew  that  she  was  the  one  woman — he 
said  she  knew  it,  too,  though  neither  of  them 
said  anything.  They  did  n't  even  ask  each 
other's  names — they  just  took  each  other  for 
granted. 

"When  the  relief  train  came,  an  hour  later, 
they  were  taken  to  different  hospitals,  and 
after  he  was  able  to  leave  the  hospital,  Mr. 
Chandler  spent  every  cent  he  had,  trying  to 
find  her — advertising,  detectives,  and  all  that, 


"ffrom  tbe  "dnvarging  Star"  339 

you  know,  and  by  the  time  his  money  was  gone, 
he  had  to  give  it  up. 

"  He 's  loved  her  ever  since,"  she  con 
tinued,  clearing  her  throat,  "and  dreamed 
about  her,  and  wanted  her  all  the  time,  the 
way  a  man  wants  the  woman  he  loves.  I  've 
been  so  sorry  for  him  ever  since  he  told  me.  If 
he  could  only  have  kissed  her  once,  and  had 
that  to  remember,  why " 

"Judith!"  Miss  Cynthia  had  risen  and  was 
leaning  against  the  mantel.  Her  face  was 
deathly  pale  but  her  wonderful  eyes  were 
alight  with  secret  fires.  "Judith!  I  don't  care 
whether  you  're  on  speaking  terms  with  Carter 
or  not!  Get  him!  Get  his  car!  Get  my 
hat — get  my  opera  coat,  and  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  hurry!" 

"But,  Aunt  Cynthia!" 

"Don't  talk!  Act!  Get  Carter!  Get  the 
car!  Bring  my  things!  Oh,"  she  sobbed, 
sinking  into  her  chair  and  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands,  "what  a  fool  I  've  been — what  a  blind, 
blind  fool!" 

In  an  instant  the  house  was  awake  with 
confusion.  Judith  wrote  two  notes  to  Carter, 
sent  one  maid  with  one  to  Mrs.  Warner's,  and 
the  other  to  Mr.  Chandler's  with  the  other. 
Unless  he  had  stayed  in  town,  he  would  be  at 
one  place  or  the  other.  Both  were  brief, 
and  exactly  alike.  "Come  at  once  with  the 
car.  Aunt  Cynthia  wants  you.  Hurry.  J.  S." 


340 

Carter  and  Margery  were  still  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  cedar  when  the  breathless 
messenger  arrived.  "Wait  a  minute,"  said 
Carter  to  the  weary  and  excited  maid,  "  I  '11 
take  you  back/'  Then,  to  Margery:  "Some 
thing  is  wrong,  dear.  You  'd  better  go  in. 
I  '11  come  back  just  as  soon  as  I  can.  Any 
way,  I  '11  let  you  know." 

Margery  waited  until  the  last  sound  of  the 
car  had  died  in  the  distance,  then  went  into 
the  library,  literally  aglow  with  the  light  which 
came  from  within.  One  look  at  that  radiant 
face  was  all  Chandler  needed.  "  Is  it  all  right, 
dear  ?"  he  asked,  softly. 

"Yes,"  cried  Margery,  "it's  all  right. 
Everything's  all  right!  Nothing  can  ever  be 
wrong  again!" 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  with  a  nod.  "The 
things  that  are  ours  come  to  us  and  abide 
with  us — they  're  not  to  be  taken  away  or 
lost.  Listen — you  '11  understand  this  now." 

He  picked  up  the  book  Miss  Cynthia  had 
sent  him.  It  opened  of  its  own  accord,  at  one 
passage  which  he  had  underlined  heavily: 
"Far  above  our  heads,  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  sky,  shines  the  star  of  our  destined  love; 
and  it  is  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  star  and 
illumined  by  its  rays,  that  every  passion  that 
stirs  us  will  come  to  life,  even  to  the  end.  And 
though  we  choose  to  right  or  to  left  of  us,  on 
the  heights  or  in  the  shallows;  though,  in  our 


dm>arsina  Star"  341 

struggle  to  break  through  the  enchanted  circle 
that  is  drawn  around  all  the  acts  of  our  life, 
we  do  violence  to  the  instinct  that  moves  us, 
and  try  our  hardest  to  choose  against  the  choice 
of  destiny,  yet  shall  the  woman  we  elect  al 
ways  have  come  to  us,  straight  from  the  un 
varying  star." 

There  was  a  silence,  then  Chandler  asked, 
tenderly,  "  Do  you  understand  ?" 

But  Margery  did  not  hear  him.  "Listen," 
she  said.  "  He 's  coming  back."  She  ran 
out  to  the  gate  and  waited  until  Carter  ap 
peared.  Blinded  by  the  fact  of  his  return, 
she  did  not  notice  Miss  Cynthia  at  all,  nor 
did  the  old  lady  stop  to  speak  to  her.  Scorn 
ing  assistance,  she  wriggled  out  of  the  back 
seat,  and,  with  crutch  and  cane,  went  up  the 
steps  and  straight  through  the  open  door  into 
the  library  where  the  light  was  burning. 

The  white  plumed  hat  upon  her  silvered 
hair  was  slightly  askew,  but  the  brilliants 
blazed  both  from  her  hair  and  from  the  buckle. 
Her  purple  velvet  gown  trailed  sumptuously 
back  from  the  folds  of  her  white  fur-lined  coat, 
heavy  with  lace  and  silver.  The  Venetian 
lace  bertha  and  the  Egyptian  spangled  scarf 
rose  and  fell  with  every  breath;  upon  her  bare 
neck  hung  the  locket,  bordered  by  discoloured 
pearls,  with  the  diamond  cross  putting  the 
brilliants  to  shame.  Her  deep  eyes  met  his, 
with  longing  and  appeal. 


342 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Utter 


Startled  by  the  vision,  Chandler  wondered, 
for  a  moment,  where  he  had  seen  that  splendid 
coat  before,  then  he  remembered — Judith  had 
worn  it  one  night;  she  said  it  was  Miss  Cyn 
thia's.  Then  he  saw  the  locket. 

Thrilled  to  the  depths,  yet  secretly  afraid 
to  believe,  and  utterly  forgetting  his  help 
lessness,  he  started  from  his  chair,  his  empty 
arms  outstretched. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said  brokenly.  "The 
many,  many  years!" 


343 


XXIII 


FOLKS  as  wants  to  live  in  the  city  can 
if  they  like,"  said  Aunt  Belinda,  point- 
edly.  "It's  plenty  enough  excitin'  for  me 
right  here." 

"Jes'  so,  Mother  —  jes'  so."  Uncle  Henry 
was  nodding  in  a  sunny  corner  of  the  kitchen 
porch,  sniffing  appreciatively,  now  and  then, 
at  the  spicy  scents  that  were  wafted  afar 
from  the  preserving  kettle.  "Is  it  termater 
pickles  ?" 

"  No  —  it  's  peaches.  And  yellow  tomato 
preserves  with  lemon  peel  in  'em." 

"  I  'd  admire  to  taste  the  peaches,  Mother, 
when  you  think  they  're  done.  I  ain't  never 
seen  your  beat  on  pickles." 

"They  ain't  done  yet.  They've  got  to 
cook  slow  or  they  '11  bust."  She  came  out, 
wiping  her  flushed  face  upon  her  apron,  and 
settled  down  into  the  decrepit  rocker  that 
stood  beside  Uncle  Henry's  arm-chair. 

"As  I  was  sayin',"  she  resumed,  "it's  plenty 
excitin'  for  me  right  here." 

"So  'tis,  Mother—  so  'tis." 


344 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


Ube  One 
Concerned 


"What  with  the  marryin'  and  the  givin'  in 
marriage  and  the  swappin'  of  partners  goin' 
on  almost  at  the  last  minute,  a  body  'd  get 
flustered,  if  they  let  theirselves  get  to  dwellin' 
on  it." 

"  Then  don't  dwell  on  it,  Mother." 

"I  ain't  a  dwellin'.  I  was  just  a  thinkin'. 
I  was  wonderin'  what  his  mother 'd  say  if 
she  knew  it." 

"Whose  mother?" 

"His.  What  'd  she  think  of  her  son  chasin' 
after  one  girl  for  three  or  four  years  and  then 
gettin'  engaged  to  her,  and  buildin'  her  a 
house,  and  gettin'  the  furniture  most  all  into 
it,  and  then  gettin'  hisself  engaged  to  another 
girl  that  he  ain't  never  seen  six  months  ago  ? 
What 'd  you  say?" 

"  I  'd  say  that  as  long  as  he  was  the  one  that 
was  goin'  to  live  with  her,  he  had  the  most  to 
say  about  it.  I  would  n't  let  it  concern  me 
none." 

"But  it  ain't  honourable,  Henry.  I  can't 
bear  to  have  him  do  a  thing  like  that.  His 
own  mother  could  n't  have  brung  him  up  more 
carefully  for  the  last  five  years  than  I  have." 

"  He  was  brung  up,  Belinda,  when  he  come 
here.  You  ain't  had  nothin'  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  she  returned,  sarcastically. 
"  I  ain't  picked  up  after  him  and  cooked  for 
him  and  mended  his  clothes  and  put  cream  on 
his  sunburn  and  fed  his  pets  and  aired  his  low- 


345 

necked  coat  to  keep  the  moths  out  of  it,  have 
I  ?" 

"That  ain't  nothin',  Mother.  It's  only 
woman's  work." 

"Humph!"  she  snorted.  "What  have  you 
done  ?" 

"  Me  ?"  queried  Uncle  Henry,  reminiscently. 
"  Why  I  've  built  the  pigeon  house " 

"  He  helped  you  do  that." 

"And  the  shed  for  the  ottymobile " 

"  He  paid  a  carpenter  to  help  you  do  that." 

"And  I  made  the  road,  so  's  he  wouldn't 
have  to  run  over  the  grass " 

"That  ain't  nothin' — makin'  roads  ain't." 

"No,"  the  old  man  sighed,  "mebbe  not. 
Folks  makes  their  own  roads  and  we  can't 
help  'em  none.  All  we  can  do  is  to  smooth 
the  path  a  bit.  I  've  thought  lots  of  times 
that  if  we  all  tried  to  make  other  people's 
paths  easy,  our  own  feet  would  have  a  smooth 
even  place  to  walk  on." 

"You  talk  like  a  minister,  Henry."  She 
was  not  to  be  diverted  by  spiritual  parallels 
from  the  main  issue.  "What  I  'm  sayin'  is 
that  it  ain't  decent  for  him  to  act  so,  and  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  be  did,  Belinda. 
You  can't  make  Miss  Judith  marry  him  if  she 
don't  want  to,  and  I  reckon  she  don't.  She 
could  have." 

"What  do  you  think  Miss  Judith  has  done  ? 


346  21  TOleaver  of  Streams 

©tft«  She 's  gone  and  given  that  handkerchief 
linen  that  she's  spent  months  embroiderin', 
to  that  Margery,  for  a  weddin'  dress.  She 
said  it  was  made  for  his  weddin',  and  she 
wanted  the  dress  to  be  there.  What  do  you 
think  about  that  ?" 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Miss  Bancroft's  Susie." 

"Why  n't  she  give  it  to  Miss  Bancroft?" 

"  I  dunno.  That 's  what  I  'd  have  done,  if 
I  had  n't  been  goin*  to  use  it  myself." 

"Where  they  all  goin'  to  live  afterwards  ?" 

"Who— after  what?" 

"After  all  the  marryin'." 

Aunt  Belinda  sighed.  "  I  dunno,  Henry," 
she  answered,  with  wifely  patience.  "  If  I 
did,  I  'd  tell  you."  She  had  the  air  of 
one  unwillingly  placed  upon  the  witness 
stand. 

"  He  's  give  her  the  house."  Uncle  Henry 
reached  over  to  the  broom,  selected  a  straw, 
and  chewed  it  meditatively. 

"  Who  'd  he  give  it  to  ?    Her  or  Margery  ?  " 

"Her." 

"Henry  Warner!  How  long  have  you 
knowed  that  ?" 

"  Since  day  before  yistiddy  when  I  was  to  the 
store  after  the  cinnamon  and  you  sent  me  back 
to  get  the  kind  that  comes  in  sticks." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  Si  Walters.    He  was  over  to  the  court-house 


(Bossfp  " 


347 


and  he  see  the  deed  all  recorded — Carter 
Keith  to  Judith  Sylvester,  for  one  dollar  and 
other  valuable  considerations." 

"Land  sakes!  She  ain't  doin'  so  bad  then. 
She  's  gettin'  the  house  without  the  trouble  of 
a  husband.  I  reckon  she 's  smarter  than  I 
thought." 

If  the  comment  contained  a  hidden  arrow, 
it  glanced  harmlessly  aside  from  the  armour 
of  Uncle  Henry's  content.  From  his  sunny 
corner  he  contemplated  the  rolling  meadows 
that  stretched  from  the  road  back  to  the  hills. 
One  of  Carter's  rabbits  had  escaped  from  its 
hutch  and  was  hopping  across  the  clover  patch 
with  an  air  of  festivity.  Pigeons  promenaded 
back  and  forth  in  the  sun,  with  deep-throated 
murmurs  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  it  was 
a  bright  and  beautiful  morning  and  that  all 
was  well. 

"The  ladies  at  the  Sewin'  Circle  was  sayin' 
yesterday,"  she  continued,  "that  after  Miss 
Cynthia  had  waited  as  long  as  she  had,  she  'd 
orter  have  a  husband  that  was  n't  lame.  So 
I  up  and  told  'em  that  Mr.  Chandler  and  Miss 
Cynthia  was  made  lame  at  the  same  time,  and 
they  was  that  surprised!" 

"  Don't  take  much  to  surprise  a  Sewin' 
Circle,"  the  old  man  said,  meditatively. 

"P'raps  not."  Aunt  Belinda  clucked  her 
teeth  sharply  together  as  she  often  did  when 
she  was  annoyed.  "  I  don't  know  why  women 


Ube  Scw= 
ing  Circle 

Surprises 


348 


H  Meaner  of  Dreams 


<Boss(p  or 
JSusincss 


should  n't  talk  about  the  things  that  interests 
'em  same  as  men  do." 

"Women  gossips,"  replied  Uncle  Henry, 
severely.  "  Men  does  n't." 

"  What  do  you  call  gossipin',  Henry  Warner  ? 
Answer  me  that." 

"Talkin'  about  things  that  don't  matter. 
Tellin'  things  about  people.     Like  Miss  Ban- 
croft's^Susie  tellin'  you  that  Miss  Judith  had 
give  her  a  dress.    What 's  that  amount  to  ? 
That 's  gossip." 

"And  Si  Walters  tellin'  you  that  he'd  give 
her  the  house  and  that  he  'd  seen  the  record 
of  it,  for  'one  dollar  and  other  valuable  con 
siderations' — and  you  settin'  on  a  soap  box 
all  the  afternoon  to  discuss  it  and  forgettin' 
to  bring  the  right  cinnamon  and  havin'  to 
be  sent  back  for  it — that  ain't  gossip,  is 
it?" 

"No,  Belinda — 't  ain't.    That 's  business." 

"Is  business  transacted  on  soap  boxes  ?" 

"Might  be,"  he  returned,  cautiously.  He 
had  the  feeling  that  an  unsuspected  trap  was 
about  to  close  upon  him.  "  Business  is  trans 
acted  wherever  men  happens  to  be — res 
taurants,  stores,  hotels,  saloons,  or  any  other 
place.  Offices,  too." 

"Mis'  Stebbins  was  sayin'  at  the  Sewin' 
Circle  that  she  reckoned  about  the  first  thing 
to  be  did  after  women  got  the  vote  would  be  to 
pass  a  law  requirin'  all  saloons  to  be  closed  at 


349 


five  o'clock  so  's  the  men  could  get  home  to 
their  suppers  in  decent  season." 

"  I  ain't  in  favour  of  women's  votin'." 

"Why  not  ?"  Aunt  Belinda  bristled,  for  the 
modern  unrest  had  penetrated  the  Sewing 
Circle. 

"Well,  they  ain't  got  time.  It  'd  take  'em 
away  from  their  home  duties." 

"  It  don't  take  no  more  time  to  vote  than  it 
does  to  go  to  market." 

"That  ain't  what, I  'm  speakin'  of.  They  'd 
have  to  think  about  how  they  was  goin'  to 
vote  and  why.  It  'd  divert  their  minds." 

"  I  dunno  why  they  'd  have  to  think  about 
it.  Men  does  n't." 

"Women  orter  be  protected  from  the  hard 
ships  of  the  world." 

"Yes,  they  orter,  but  they  ain't.  As  long 
as  over  half  the  world's  work  is  slid  onto 
women's  shoulders,  I  don't  see  why  they 
should  n't  have  som'thin'  to  say  about  the 
runnin'  of  it." 

"  I  'm  glad  I  ain't  called  on  to  settle  it,"  he 
mused.  "There  ain't  no  use  of  gettin'  your 
self  stirred  up,  Belinda.  Smiles  is  pretty 
and  pleasant  but  it  takes  fists  to  do  things,  and 
a  vote  orter  have  a  fist  behind  it." 

"  Moral  force — "  she  began. 

"Is  all  right  in  lots  of  places,  but  it  takes 
fists  and  clubs  and  guns  to  make  a  man's 
world  straight.  A  mob,  now — do  you  sup- 


tDOomen's 
.  fRigbts 


350 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


Bn  Una 

teresting 

tEopic 


pose  a  lady  policeman  could  walk  into  a  mob 
and  smile  and  say, 'Gentlemen,  will  you  please 
disperse  yourselves  and  go  to  your  separate 
homes'  ?  A  club  is  what 's  needed,  or  mebbe 
the  fire  hose." 

"I  could  turn  on  the  fire  hose,"  returned 
Aunt  Belinda,  thoughtfully.  "  I  'd  admire  to 
do  it." 

"  I  reckon  you  would.  If  we  'd  had  a  hose, 
I  '11  reckon  you  'd  have  turned  it  on  me  more  'n 
once  when  your  temper  got  het  up.  That 's 
why  I  ain't  never  bought  one." 

"  I  would  n't  have  turned  no  cold  water  on 
you,  Henry.  You  'd  a  took  your  death  a 
cold.  Sakes  alive!  The  peaches  are  burnin'!" 

She  fled  to  the  rescue,  and  Uncle  Henry, 
unperturbed,  selected  another  broom  straw 
with  extreme  care.  When  she  came  out  he 
reverted  to  the  original  topic. 

"When  's  he  goin'  to  leave  ?" 

"  I  dunno.  He  ain't  said  yet.  He 's  been 
packin'  up  his  clothes  and  books  and  fishin' 
tackle  and  other  traps,  but  he  ain't  talked  none 
about  movin'  the  furniture." 

"I  forgot,"  returned  Uncle  Henry,  placidly 
chewing  upon  his  straw.  "  He  told  me  we  was 
to  keep  the  furniture  in  remembrance  of  him, 
and,  'I  hope,  Uncle  Henry/  he  says,  'that 
you  'n  Aunt  Belinda  will  see  your  way  clear 
to  take  some  other  lonely  young  fellow  into 
your  hearts  and  home,  and  be  father  'n  mother 


351 


to  him,  same  's  you  've  been  to  me.'  Them  's 
his  very  words." 

"  Henry  Warner!  When  'd  he  tell  you  that  ?" 

"  I  dunno  as  I  could  say  just  when.  Last 
week  sometime,  I  reckon.  I  disremember." 

"Well  if  you  ain't  the  beatenest!  I  never 
in  all  my  life —  Aunt  Belinda's  lower  jaw 
dropped,  but  words  mercifully  failed.  "It's 
a  wonder  you  would  n't  tell  me  somethin' 
now  and  then,"  she  concluded,  sarcastically. 

"I  do,  Belinda — I  do.  What's  right  and 
proper  for  you  to  know  I  tell  you  in  due  season 
and  what  ain't,  I  don't.  I  never  was  one  to 
gossip." 

"  I  don't  know  of  anythin'  you  've  ever  kept 
to  yourself.  I  ain't  complainin'  that  you  don't 
tell  me  everythin' — I  'm  complainin'  that  you 
don't  do  it  quick  enough." 

"A  man  is  obliged  to  have  a  reservoir  for  his 
mind.  He  can't  let  everythin'  trickle  out  the 
minute  it  gets  in,  like  a  woman  does." 

"Reservoir!"  she  repeated,  scornfully. 
"  You  'd  better  say  cistern — with  the  cover  off, 
too,  and  mosquitoes  hatchin'  on  top." 

"You  remind  me  some  of  a  pepper  box, 
Belinda.  If  you  '11  bring  me  the  corn,  I  '11 
feed  the  pigeons.  It  must  be  about  time. 
And  if  you  '11  bring  out  a  pail  of  water  when 
you  come,  too,  I  '11  go  and  fill  the  tile  so  's 
they  can  drink.  It 's  got  low  and  one  of  'em 
a'most  fell  into  it  just  now." 


352 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Ufme  to 
£at 


A  cloud  of  feathered  pensioners  descended 
into  the  yard  as  the  first  handful  of  corn  struck 
the  bare  earth.  Aunt  Belinda  stood  watching, 
but  Uncle  Henry,  as  was  his  wont,  sat  when 
ever  it  was  possible  to  sit.  He  had  theories 
about  "making  his  mind  save  his  feet,"  and 
was  occasionally  reminded,  with  a  certain 
tartness,  that  he  never  used  his  mind  for  any 
other  purpose. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  was  saying,  "  how  they  know 
what  time  it  is  ?" 

"  By  their  stomachs,  I  reckon,  same 's  a 
man  does." 

"  What  are  you  layin'  out  to  have  for  dinner, 
Mother  ?" 

"There  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  dinner  till  after 
the  peaches  and  tomatoes  is  put  up.  I  '11 
get  you  a  snack  of  bread  and  cheese,  if  you  'd 
like  it.  You  can  set  out  here  and  eat 
it." 

"All  right.  Mebbe  I  could  eat  one  or  two  of 
them  cold  sassages,  too.  And  I  'd  like  one  of 
them  peaches,  no  matter  whether  it 's  cooked 
or  not.  Raw  peaches  is  good." 

"But  raw  pickles  ain't.  You  shan't  have 
none  till  they  're  good  and  done,  so  you  can 
just  make  up  your  mind  to  wait." 

"All  right."  He  had  the  pathetic  submissive- 
ness  of  the  married  man  in  his  tone.  "  I  was 
wonderin'  whether  as  long  as  he's  give  us  the 
furniture,  he  would  n't  let  us  keep  the  rabbits 


353 

and  pigeons  and  dogs.     I  'd  admire  to  have       turtle' 
'em — they  remind  me  of  him  so." 

"  That 's  for  you  and  him  to  settle,  Father. 
If  I  was  a  man  and  was  just  goin'  to  be 
married  I  don't  know  what  I  'd  want  of  a 
menagerie." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  time  he  went  hunt- 
in'  and  brought  home  that  little  wildcat  to 
tame  ?" 

"  I  ain't  likely  to  forget  it.  And  the  mud 
turtle  that  was  for  ever  climbin'  out  of  its  pan 
and  walkin'  around  where  it  could  get  stepped 
on?" 

"I  remember.  Miss  Judith  told  him  he 
ought  to  name  the  turtle  Maud  because  it  in 
sisted  on  goin'  into  the  garden  and  he  said 
he  was  goin'  to  call  it  Napoleon  on  account  of 
the  bony  part." 

"  I  suppose  there  was  some  joke  in  that.  I 
can  remember  yet  how  they  was  laughin'." 

"So  can  I,  but  there  needn't  have  been 
no  joke.  Folks  in  love  is  terrible  easy  to 
please." 

"  If  they  was  n't,  they  would  n't  be  in  love,  I 
reckon." 

"Mebbe  not."  Uncle  Henry  munched 
peacefully  at  his  bread  and  cheese,  and  threw 
an  occasional  bit  to  the  pigeons.  He  shared 
his  cold  sausage  with  one  of  the  collies,  and 
Aunt  Belinda  set  out  a  panful  of  scraps  for  the 
remainder  of  the  kennel,  which  arrived  im- 


354 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


1JOW  SK6 

It  tmppen 


mediately,  with  a  unanimous  and  unmistak 
able  request. 

"I  was  just  thinkin'  about  Miss  Cynthia/' 
he  continued,  settling  back  comfortably  in  his 
chair.  "Ain't  it  funny  that  she 'n  Chandler 
should  have  been  in  the  same  wreck  and  livin' 
here  these  twenty  years  and  more  and  never 
layin'  eyes  on  each  other,  and  now  they're 
goin'  to  be  married.  It  beats  all!" 

"That  was  where  they  got  acquainted — in 
the  wreck.  If  either  of  'em  had  ever  went 
anywhere,  they  'd  have  seen  each  other,  but 
they  've  both  stayed  close  to  home." 

"They  could  have  went,  if  they  was  a  mind 
to,"  he  suggested. 

"  I  suppose  they  could.  Miss  Cynthia  got 
up  there  quick  enough  when  she  was  once  in 
the  notion.  But  how  'd  they  know  they  was 
the  ones  that  was  wrecked  together  ?" 

"  How  'd  it  come  that  they  knowed  it  now  ? 
Why  ain't  they  just  stayed  here  and 
never  seen  each  other  till  they  was  both 
dead  ?" 

"On  account  of  them  both  havin'  kept  their 
mouths  shut  and  neither  of  'em  bein'  given 
to  gossip.  Just  by  chance,  they  each  tells 
Miss  Judith,  I  understand,  and  she  goes  right 
ahead  and  fixes  things  up.  Men  muddles 
things  and  women  straightens  'em  out." 

"  If  men  is  muddlers,  women  is  meddlers. 
Ain't  it  so,  Belinda  ?"  Uncle  Henry  laughed 


355 


heartily  at  his  own  joke,  but  nobody  else  ap 
peared  to  notice  it. 

"  He  was  tellin'  me  yesterday,"  the  old  man 
continued,  after  a  pause,  "that  he  had  a 
couple  of  friends  in  mind  that  he  thought  would 
like  to  come  here  and  stay  with  us.  One  of 
'em  is  a  lawyer,  same  as  he  is,  and  the  other 
works  in  a  bank.  Must  be  nice  to  work  in  a 
bank — shuttin'  up  shop  at  three  o'clock  and  at 
noon  on  Saturdays,  all  the  year  round." 

"Henry  Warner!  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me 
that  yesterday!" 

"  I  ain't  given  to  gossip,  Belinda.  Besides, 
there  ain't  no  hurry,  is  there  ?  He  said  he  'd 
bring  'em  both  out  to  supper  to-night  and  let 
'em  see  how  they  liked  the  place.  The  bankin' 
feller  has  been  driv'  almost  crazy  by  too  much 
arithmetic  and  the  doctor  told  him  he  must 
have  quiet." 

"  Henry  Warner,  you  're  enough  to  try  the 
patience  of  a  saint!  Here  you've  knowed 
since  yesterday  that  there  was  goin'  to  be 
company  for  supper  and  you  ain't  never  said  a 
word  to  me  about  it!  What  am  I  goin'  to 
do,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?"  Tears  of  vexation 
rolled  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks. 

"There,  there,  Belinda,"  comforted  Uncle 
Henry.  "What's  good  enough  for  him  and 
me  is  good  enough  for  anybody  else,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  I  ain't  sayin'  it  is  n't,"  she  snapped.  "  But 
what  '11  feed  three  ain't  goin'  to  make  five 


Company 
Coming 


356 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


Bunt 

JGclin&a 
•ReUnta 


comfortable.  And  if  the  two  that 's  comin' 
has  got  appetites  anythin'  like  yours  and  his, 
it  '11  mean  cookin'  from  now  till  train  time 
to  get  enough  to  fill  'em  up.  You  go  and 
hitch  up,  and  I  '11  write  out  what  I  want  at  the 
store." 

A  pained  expression  came  upon  the  old 
man's  face.  "But  my  dinner,  Belinda!" 

"Your  dinner,  Henry  Warner,  is  your  sup 
per.  There 's  another  cold  sassage  in  the 
pantry  and  you  can  munch  on  it  whiles  you  're 
drivin'  in." 

"  But— 

"  Don't  stop  to  talk.  Go  and  hitch  up, 
and  see  that  you  come  right  back.  Promise  me 
you  won't  set  down  until  you  come  home." 

Weakly,  he  promised.  "Must  have  done 
somethin'  terrible,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
went  toward  the  barn,  "or  Belinda 'd  never 
make  me  go  to  town  without  my  dinner.  She 
knows  I  'm  likely  to  get  sick  if  I  don't  have  my 
meals  regular.  Women  is  queer — even  the 
best  of  'em — they  certainly  is." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Aunt  Belinda  re 
lented.  She  had  her  kitchen  table  heavily 
laden  with  jar  after  jar  of  preserves  and  pick 
les.  A  pleasant,  spicy  odour  pervaded  the 
spotless  house,  the  table  was  set  with  the  best 
china  and  silver,  and  a  feast,  which  included 
hot  biscuits  and  honey,  was  well  under  way. 
Aunt  Belinda  herself  had  donned  her  second- 


fcosstp" 


357 


best  black  silk,  and  had  on  a  new  white  apron. 
She  appeared  before  the  dejected  one  with  a 
tray  laden  with  sandwiches  and  warm  little 
cakes,  fresh  from  the  oven,  and  a  teapot  steam 
ing  in  the  centre. 

He  ate  gratefully,  and,  of  his  own 
accord,  took  the  ravaged  tray  into  the 
house. 

"  I  reckoned  you  'd  find  it  comfortin'/'  she 
said,  pacifically. 

"  It  was,  Mother.  You  Ve  been  givin'  me 
comfort  ever  since  I  've  knowed  you." 

"And  you  me,  —  that  is,  most  of  the  time." 
Aunt  Belinda  was  trying  to  be  truthful  and  at 
the  same  time  polite. 

The  post-prandial  contentment  had  Uncle 
Henry  firmly  in  its  grasp.  "  I  don't  see  as 
you  've  changed  none,  Mother.  You  look 
just  about  the  same  to  me  as  you  did 
thirty  years  ago  when  we  was  married  —  only 
prettier." 

A  faded  pink  blossomed  upon  Aunt  Be 
linda's  wrinkled  cheeks,  and  her  keen  eyes 
softened.  The  old  man  leaned  fonv^rd,  out 
of  his  chair. 

"Mother!  If  we  wa'n't  married  and  I  was 
to  ask  you,  would  you  come  now,  like  Miss 
Cynthia  and  Chandler  ?" 

"  I  reckon  I  would." 

He  got  up,  went  to  her,  and  bent  down  to 
kiss  her.  "Thirty  years!"  he  said.  "It 


Bears  Bgo 


358 


Weaver  of  Dreams 


«cvec©R»     don't   seem   as   if  we  was  old,  Mother,  does 
it?" 

"No,    Henry,   it   doesn't.    And  we   ain't, 
neither.     Love  never  gets  old!" 


359 


XXIV 

Sunset  1bour 


AFTER  the  first  time,  Miss  Cynthia  stead 
fastly  refused  to  go  to  Chandler's  house 
again,  but  insisted  that  he  should  come  to  her, 
as  was  right  and  proper.  Judith  went  to  the 
city  and  selected  a  wheeled  chair  for  him  that 
could  be  used  upon  the  street.  The  day  it 
came,  he  went  out  of  his  little  yard  for  the 
first  time  in  twenty-five  years. 

Apart,  and  more  alone  than  ever,  Judith 
watched  the  two,  so  strangely  brought  to 
gether  after  many  years.  Forgetting  the 
silver  that  shone  fitfully  in  Chandler's  hair 
and  made  a  crown  of  glory  upon  Miss  Cynthia's 
beautiful  head,  they  had  magically  become 
young  again.  With  a  queer  little  pain  at  her 
heart,  Judith  comprehended  Miss  Cynthia's 
intervals  of  absent-mindedness,  when  the 
wonderful  eyes,  softened  with  dreams  and 
tears,  looked  at  things  they  saw  not,  search 
ing  the  far  beyond  for  things  they  could  not 


see. 


The  situation  had  become  reversed.    Once 
Miss  Cynthia,  lonely,  though  unselfish,  had 


Bpatt  an& 

Blonc 


H  Weaver  of  Dreams 


and 


sat  apart  and  communed  with  herself  while 
the  lovers  were  unconscious  even  of  her  re 
mote  existence.  Now  Judith  spent  solitary 
evenings  in  the  upper  room,  with  only  the  fire 
for  companionship,  while  the  other  two, 
downstairs,  sat  close  together,  with  clasped 
hands  bridging  the  empty  and  desolate 
years. 

Just  as  Judith  had  waited  for  Carter  upon 
the  upper  balcony,  Miss  Cynthia  sat  there 
now,  straining  her  eyes  for  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  wheeled  chair.  Chandler  always  came 
to  dinner  and  even  though  the  afternoon  was 
cold,  Miss  Cynthia,  in  her  white  and  silver 
coat,  bade  brave  defiance  to  all  Judith's 
warnings  and  watched  for  her  lover,  as  was  her 
woman's  right. 

More  beautiful  than  ever,  Miss  Cynthia 
literally  radiated  joy.  Roses  bloomed  upon 
her  cheeks  again,  as  they  had  in  years  gone 
by;  her  sweet  voice,  once  high  and  clear,  was 
filled  with  deep  undertones  of  tenderness. 
The  music  of  it  thrilled  Judith  to  the  heart;  it 
was  so  full  of  longing  and  appeal. 

Practical  considerations  appeared  before 
Judith,  but  did  not  disturb  Miss  Cynthia  at 
all.  For  instance,  where  were  they  to  live  ? 
Chandler's  house  was  small  and  inappropriate, 
and  Miss  Cynthia's  double-decked  mansion 
was  hardly  the  place  for  a  man  who  left  his 
wheeled  chair  only  to  be  lifted  into  bed. 


Sunset  Tbour 


361 


Judith  pondered  through  many  a  wakeful 
hour  before  the  inspiration  came  to  her. 

But  would  Aunt  Cynthia  go  ?  The  lit 
tle  old  lady  was  extraordinarily  self-willed. 
Would  Chandler  accept  it  ?  And  yet,  why 
not  ?  Judith  waited,  fearing  to  speak. 

The  golden  afternoon  was  waning.  Long 
purple  shadows  lay  upon  the  valley,  while  the 
last  light  lingered  upon  the  hills.  Flaming 
tapestries  of  sunset  hung  from  the  high  walls 
of  heaven,  at  once  a  death  and  a  promise  of 
resurrection.  Miss  Cynthia,  closely  wrapped 
in  her  splendour,  sat  facing  it.  She  reminded 
Judith  of  a  saint  upon  a  stained  glass  window, 
so  radiant  was  she  from  the  sunset  and  from 
the  light  within. 

"  Dear,"  said  Judith,  softly,  "you'll  have  to 
have  a  wedding-gown." 

"Why?"  asked  Miss  Cynthia,  dreamily. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  road  below. 

"  Everybody  does,"  Judith  answered,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"  I  'm  not  everybody,"  the  old  lady  mur 
mured. 

"No,  but  you  can't  be  married  as  though 
you  were  n't  anybody.  Will  you  let  me  go  to 
town  to-morrow  and  get  you  a  wedding-gown 
— white  satin  and  lace  veil  and  orange  blos 
soms  and  everything  else  that  goes  .with  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about, 
Judith,"  the  disturbed  one  remarked,  fretfully. 


IRaMantaa 
a  Saint 


362 


H  Meaver  of  Dreams 


ttbe  place, 

tbe  Uime, 

ant>  tbe 

(Sown 


"Why  should  you  prattle  about  white  satin  on 
a  day  like  this  ?  Do  you  see  that  wonderful 
sunset  ?  Is  n't  it  the  most  perfect  day  God 
ever  made  ?  And  he 's  coming — he  '11  be 
here  inside  of  half  an  hour." 

"  For  that  half-hour  you  must  be  sensible," 
said  Judith,  with  affected  sternness.  She 
went  to  the  little  white  and  silver  figure, 
lifted  the  saucy  chin,  and  kissed  the  sweet 
lips.  "Would  you  mind  telling  me,  dear,  as 
woman  to  woman,  what  you  intend  to  be 
married  in  ?" 

"My  purple  velvet,"  said  Miss  Cynthia, 
promptly. 

"  Dearest!     It 's  impossible!" 

"Nothing  is  impossible  in  this  world  of 
miracles,  my  dear.  We  speak  as  though  the 
days  of  magic  were  over,  but  they  're  not." 

"Aunt  Cynthia!  Your  purple  velvet  is 
low-necked,  is  n't  it  ?" 

"  Somewhat.    Do  you  consider  it  indecent  ?  " 

"  For  daytime  wear,  yes.  Unless  you  're 
going  to  be  married  in  the  evening,  you  can't 
wear  it." 

"  I  will  if  I  want  to.  I  'm  going  to  be  mar 
ried  in  church,  as  near  sunset  as  possible,  and 
I  'm  going  to  wear  my  purple  velvet." 

"Why  church?"  queried  Judith.  "Why 
sunset  ?  Why  the  velvet  gown  ?" 

Miss  Cynthia  turned  to  Judith  with  the  air 
of  a  teacher  about  to  turn  a  fountain  of  wis- 


Sunset  Dour 


363 


M 

dom   upon   the  parching  minds  of  an  eager 


class.  "Church?  Because  marriage  is  a 
religious  ceremony  and  religion  belongs  to 
church.  Indeed,  most  people  keep  theirs 
there  exclusively.  Sunset  because  we  're  both 
in  our  declining  years — morning  and  high  noon 
are  not  for  people  of  fifty,  are  they  ?  Be 
sides — it 's  like  that" — pointing  to  the  splen 
dour  in  the  west — "  the  wonder  and  the  glory 
at  the  close  of  a  long,  dull  day.  This  is  my 
hour.  And  the  purple  velvet  because  it  be 
longs  with  the  sunset — and  with' me — and  be 
cause  I  wore  it — the  night — that — that — ' 
She  hesitated  and  dimpled  in  lovely  confusion. 
"  Because  I  look  like  a  Real  Lady  in  it,  don't 
I  ?"  she  concluded,  with  airy  defiance. 

"Oh,  you  darling,"  said  Judith,  half  to  her 
self.  "  Forgive  me.  You  shall  have  all  the 
purple  velvet  you  want.  I  '11  have  the  church 
upholstered  with  it  if  you  say  so." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  disclaim 
ing  the  offer  with  a  wave  of  her  hand.  "  I  'm 
a  simple  and  modest  person  with  quiet  tastes. 
What  are  you  going  to  give  me  for  a  wed 
ding  present  ?"  she  inquired,  with  childlike 
interest. 

Judith  knelt  beside  the  old  lady's  low  chair. 
"  Have  n't  you  guessed  ?  Have  n't  you 
thought  of  the  one  thing  I  have  to  give  you  ? 
The  one  thing  that  you  ought  to  have  ?" 

"No,"     murmured     Miss     Cynthia.      "I 


present 


364 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


Ube  Sear 
Xittle 
Tfoouse 


have  n't."  She  stood  up  for  a  moment,  shad 
ing  her  eyes,  but  there  were  no  signs  of  the  ap 
proaching  chair,  so  she  settled  back  again. 

"Where  were  you  going  to  live,  dear  ?" 

"\  don't  know.  Any  place.  Both  places. 
Under  a  red  umbrella  on  the  river  bank.  It 
does  n't  matter." 

"  But  it  does.    Guess,  dearest." 

"  I  can't.  Don't  torment  me  by  making 
me  use  my  mind  when  I  don't  want  to."' 

"The  House  of  Hearts,"  said  Judith,  softly. 

Miss  Cynthia  turned,  startled.  "No,"  she 
said.  "  You  must  n't." 

"But  I  must.  It's  mine,  isn't  it?  Be 
sides,  I  've  already  deeded  it  to  you,  and  you 
can't  say  a  single  word."  She  stopped  the 
flood  of  protestations  with  a  kiss. 

Miss  Cynthia's  eyes  filled.  "The  dear  little 
house,"  she  said,  half  to  herself.  "All  for  me 
— and  for  him!" 

"Yes,"  said  Judith,  choking  back  her  own 
tears.  "  Built  for  a  bride,  and  to  be  given  to 
the  loveliest  bride  that  ever  was,  as  a  wedding- 
gift  from  someone  who  loves  her  very,  very 
much." 

"Judith!"  Miss  Cynthia  lifted  her  arms 
and  the  two  wept  together,  as  is  the  way  of 
women  when  they  are  very,  very  happy.  "  I 
can't  believe  it,"  sobbed  Miss  Cynthia. 
"What  a  long,  awful  day  I  've  had,  and  what  a 
wonderful  sunset  I  'm  having  now!  Judith! 


Sunset  1bour 


365 


Do  you  think  it 's  wrong  for  anybody  to  be  so 
happy  as  I  am  ?" 

"No,  dear — it's  perfectly  right.  Look!" 
She  pointed  to  the  road  below.  "  You  must  n't 
let  him  find  you  crying." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  rising  and  hur 
riedly  wiping  her  eyes.  "  I  must  n't."  She 
went  down  and  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door 
when  the  chair  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

Judith  walked  back  and  forth  slowly  upon 
the  veranda,  glad  she  had  given  as  she  had. 
Carter  would  be  glad,  too,  when  he  knew — 
she  must  write  him  a  note  and  tell  him.  She 
had  heard,  through  Chandler  and  Miss  Cyn 
thia,  of  the  engagement,  and  also  that  Margery 
had  chosen  to  live  in  town  where  so  much  was 
going  on  all  the  time  that  one  could  never  be 
dull. 

If  the  house  had  been  built  for  Miss  Cynthia 
and  Chandler,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
suitable  in  every  way — the  low  bungalow,  with 
only  four  or  five  steps  to  the  porch  and  no 
stairs  at  all  inside.  She  decided  upon  addi 
tional  bookcases  for  the  living-room  and  den; 
otherwise  she  would  finish  it  as  she  had  meant 
to  do  long  ago,  and  the  few  last  touches  should 
be  those  she  had  planned  for  herself,  even  to  the 
pink-and-white  chintz  in  one  dressing-room 
and  the  blue-and-white  in  the  other. 

The  name  of  the  house  was  right,  too,  and 
the  stationery,  for  which  the  die  had  been 


366 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


tmpptntflfl 
at  last 


made  months  previously,  and  the  garden,  to 
be  abloom  with  roses  wherever  roses  could  be 
made  to  grow.  Strangely,  also,  the  verses 
belonged  to  Miss  Cynthia  and  Chandler,  v/ho 
had  come  to  their  joy  so  late: 

"Little  sunset  House  of  Hearts 

Standing  all  alone, 
I  could  come  and  sweep  the  leaves 
From  your  stepping  stone. 

"I  and  he  could  light  your  fires, 

Laughing  at  the  rain, 
But  oh,  it 's  far  to  Happiness — 
A  short  way  back  again." 

It  had  been  far  to  happiness,  for  Miss  Cyn 
thia  and  Chandler,  but,  because  they  had 
waited,  it  had  come  at  last,  with  no  shadows 
to  divide  or  deny  them  and  no  barriers  to  lie 
between. 

"  I  '11  wait,  too,"  said  Judith  to  herself. 
"If  it 's  meant  for  me,  it  will  come,  and  if  it 
is  n't,  I  don't  want  it." 

That  night,  after  dinner,  when  the  fire  was 
blazing  in  the  fireplace  in  the  downstairs  liv 
ing-room,  when  Chandler's  attendant  was 
making  merry  in  the  kitchen  with  Miss  Cyn 
thia's  household  staff,  out  of  sight,  yet  within 
call,  when  Judith  with  the  plea  of  an  interest 
ing  book,  had  betaken  herself  to  her  lonely 
hearthstone  upstairs,  Miss  Cynthia  pushed 


Sunset  1bour 


367 


a  little  footstool  close  to  Chandler's  chair, 
and  knelt  upon  it,  leaning  against  him. 

In  the  little  broken  phrases,  she  told  him 
what  Judith  had  done.  She  was  stirred  to  the 
depths  by  the  pity  of  it — Judith's  own  joy  had 
so  gone  astray.  The  man  said  nothing;  he 
.only  stroked  his  old  sweetheart's  silver  hair. 

"  Is  n't  it  wonderful  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  the  deep  voice  answered,  "  nothing  is 
wonderful  but  this." 

"  But  it 's  part  of  this,  is  n't  it,  Martin  ?" 

"Surely,  dear.  Everything  is,  isn't  it? 
Is  there  anything  in  the  whole  wide  world 
that  does  n't  belong  to  this  ?" 

"Yes — pain  and  sorrow  and  waiting  and 
hungry  hearts;  those  don't  belong." 

"We  've  had  those,  dearest.  Have  you  for 
gotten  ?" 

"  I  've  forgotten  everything,"  sighed  Miss 
Cynthia.  "That  unspeakable  horror,  and 
that  one  dear  hour  together  in  the  midst  of 
it,  and  then  the  long  waiting,  then  this — it 's 
as  if  we  'd  died  in  the  wreck,  is  n't  it,  and 
had  gone  straight  on  to  heaven  ?  Do  you 
think  heaven  can  be  any  more  than  this — or 
different  ?" 

"No.  If  God  Himself  is  Love,  what  else 
can  heaven  be,  save  immortality — with  no 
fear  of  parting  ?" 

Miss  Cynthia  leaned  closer.  "There  isn't 
much  time  left  for  us  to  be  together,  Martin. 


Xtbe  TlClotu 
fcerful 


368 


XUwage 

Uogetbet 


We  've  come  to  sunset  now,  and  the  night  must 
be  very  near  us.  Have  you  thought  of  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  've  thought  of  it,  but  this  is  n't  all 
— it  can't  be.  Our  mortal  life  is  only  the 
flaming  arc  of  a  circle — as  someone  has  said, 
'the  rainbow  between  two  silences.'  The  rest 
of  the  circle  is  wrapped  in  shadow,  so  we  can 
not  see  or  even  guess  what  lies  beyond,  but 
the  arc  implies  the  circle,  just  as  night  means 
day,  if  you  look  far  enough  into  it." 

"  Yes,  but  sometimes,  when  I  think  o£  all  we 
might  have  had " 

"Hush,  sweetheart.  You  must  never  think 
of  that — nor  must  I .  The  things  that  are  meant 
for  us  come  to  us  when  we  are  meant  to  have 
them.  Dawn  and  high  noon  and  the  long  days 
of  struggle  may  be  for  the  others,  but  sunset  is 
for  us,  and  twilight." 

"And  night  too,  Martin — the  long  night  out 
upon  the  circle,  when  the  arc  merges  into 
it." 

"Yes,  dear."   ' 

"Together?" 

"Always  together,  darling — never  to  be 
parted  any  more."  He  leaned  forward,  and 
lifted  her  up  into  his  arms,  as  though  she  were 
a  child;  he  kissed  the  full  soft  throat,  the 
silvered  hair,  the  dimpled  hands,  the  wonder 
ful,  dreamy  eyes,  and  then  the  sweet  lips,  an 
swering  him  with  the  rapture  that  follows  long 
denial. 


Ube  Sunset  "Bout 


369 


"Always  together,"  she  murmured,  again, 
and  the  man's  deep  voice  echoed:  "Always!" 

Carter's  normal  masculine  conceit  was  some 
what  injured  by  the  fact  that  Judith  had  sug 
gested  a  double  wedding  in  the  church  when 
she  found  that  Margery  and  Miss  Cynthia  had 
chanced  to  choose  the  same  wedding-day. 
Judith  made  all  the  plans  for  it,  directed  the 
decoration  of  the  church,  and  ordered  a  wedding- 
feast  to  be  served  at  Miss  Cynthia's  with  two 
cakes,  one  for  each  bride. 

Not  forgetting  Miss  Cynthia's  favourite 
poison-ivy,  but  taking  care  to  handle  it  with 
gloves,  Judith  had  filled  the  church  with 
autumn  leaves — great  boughs  of  gold  and 
crimson,  mingled  with  the  russet  of  the  oaks, 
and  trailing  vines  of  gold  and  scarlet  every 
where.  The  sunset  streamed  through  the 
stained  glass  windows,  carrying  the  colour 
of  Autumn  into  every  nook  and  corner.  The 
fragrance  of  it  floated  in  through  the  open 
door,  to  the  murmur  of  drifted  leaves.  Upon 
the  altar  the  yellow  taper-lights  gleamed  like 
fallen  stars. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warner,  with  Judith  and  the 
minister's  wife,  sat  in  the  front  pews.  Carter 
and  Margery  were  married  first — Margery  in 
the  white  linen  gown  Judith  had  embroidered 
for  her  own  wedding — pale  but  lovely,  with 
the  particular  loveliness  that  belongs  to  brides. 


Ube 

JDoublc 


370 


H  Meaner  of  Breams 


tfcaet 


Then  Miss  Cynthia,  in  her  purple  velvet 
gown  and  white  hat,  went  up  to  the  altar,  be 
side  Chandler's  chair,  and  knelt  while  the 
brief  service  was  said.  It  had  not  been 
planned,  but  Judith  instinctively  followed  Miss 
Cynthia  when  she  went,  and  held  her  hand  all 
through  the  ceremony — bridesmaid  at  the  wed 
ding  that  was  to  have  been  her  own. 

Judith  went  back  with  Chandler,  walking 
beside  him.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warner  and  the 
minister  and  his  wife  followed  them.  The 
others  went  in  Carter's  automobile. 

The  feast  was  meant  to  be  gay,  but  it  was 
not — wedding-feasts  seldom  are,  and  every 
one  was  relieved  when  it  was  over.  The  min 
ister  and  his  wife  disappeared,  then  the 
Warners  followed,  Uncle  Henry's  joy  at  de 
parture  being  painfully  evident,  as  he  was  not 
a  "visitin'  man."  The  bride  in  purple  velvet 
went  to  her  new  home  in  the  car,  to  be  wait 
ing  at  the  door  when  her  husband  came,  with 
his  attendant.  Neither  of  them  had  seen  the 
house. 

Margery  and  Judith  were  left  alone,  until  the 
car  should  come  to  take  Margery  back  to 
Chandler's,  while  she  changed  her  wedding- 
gown  for  her  street  costume  she  was  to  wear 
into  town. 

Margery  spoke  first.  "Oh  Judith,"  she 
said,  with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob,  "  I  'm 
so  happy!" 


371 

"Are  you  ?"  queried  the  older  woman,  with 
a  beautiful,  serene  smile.  "  I  'm  glad.  I  hope 
you  always  will  be — I  'm  sure  you  will  be." 

"Judith,"  said  Margery,  with  youth's  un 
conscious  cruelty,  "don't  you  care?  I  mean 
— you  could  n't  have  cared,  could  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Judith,  calmly,  "  I  could  n't  have 
cared."  The  old  pain  stabbed  at  her  heart 
for  a  moment,  then  went  away,  to  return,  as 
she  guessed,  more  than  once,  in  the  lonely  days 
that  lay  ahead. 

"  I  '11  say  good-bye  now,  if  you  don't  mind," 
she  went  on.  "  I  've  been  driven  mad  by  a 
headache  almost  all  day.  I  '11  see  you  both 
often,  later  on." 

"  Yes,"  Margery  said,  lifting  her  face  to  be 
kissed,  "you  must  come  to  us  often.  Good 
bye."  The  car  was  already  humming  and 
purring  along  the  river  road,  so  Margery  went 
out  to  meet  it,  and  Judith  went  upstairs,  glad 
to  be  alone  at  last. 

From  the  safe  shelter  of  Aunt  Cynthia's 
room,  she  saw  Carter  assist  his  bride  into  the 
car,  and  guessed,  by  the  quick  glance  he  sent 
to  the  upper  windows,  that  Margery  had  passed 
on  her  excuse.  "  I  ought  to  have  waited," 
said  Judith,  to  herself.  "I  could  have  been 
decent  for  fifteen  minutes  more,  I  guess — if 
I  'd  tried." 

From  below  came  the  mournful  clatter  of 
dishes, — saddest  sound  on  earth  to  those  who 


372 


H  Meaner  ot  Breams 


BIl 

(Ibancc 
of  Change 


dread  the  inevitable  washing.  Judith  looked 
at  her  own  white  hands,  smooth  and  beauti 
fully  kept.  "  I  'm  spared  that,"  she  thought. 
"  I — I  've  been  spared  lots  of  things." 

Because  it  was  her  home — and  the  only  one 
she  had — Judith  had  chosen  to  stay  on  alone 
in  the  old  house,  for  a  time  at  least.  It 
seemed  singularly  desolate  without  Aunt  Cyn 
thia,  but  Judith  told  herself,  sternly,  that  she 
was  a  grown  woman,  not  a  child,  and  that  she 
must  n't  let  herself  be  lonely.  Why,  she  had 
everything — except  the  one  thing  she  wanted. 

Forcing  back  the  tears,  she  went  out  upon 
the  balcony.  In  pride  of  purple  and  pomp 
of  gold,  the  day  and  the  Summer  were  dying 
together. 

The  thousand  miles  of  splendour  stretched 
away  to  the  sea;  valleys  full  of  silver  mists, 
hills  veiled  by  amethystine  haze;  a  sunset,  lain 
down  upon  the  earth,  to  dream  awhile — 
and  then  to  sleep. 

"  I  wonder  if  it 's  sunset  for  me,  too,"  she 
thought.  "Or  is  there  another  day  to  come  ?" 

Something  Chandler  had  told  her  once  came 
back  to  her.  Nobody  could  take  away  from 
her  the  things  she  had  had — they  were  hers 
securely,  beyond  all  chance  of  change.  And 
the  things  that  were  truly  hers  should  come  to 
her  and  abide  with  her  for  ever — not  to  be  de 
stroyed  or  taken  away  or  lost. 

And  so,  she  must  be  content.     She  must 


Ttbe  Sunset  1bour 


373 


learn  to  wait,  and  keep  on  dreaming.  Upon 
her  loom  of  life  she  had  worked  out  a  single 
episode,  but  it  was  not  yet  far  enough  out  of 
the  loom  so  that  she  could  understand — or 
even  see — the  design. 

To  be  a  weaver  of  dreams — to  put  the  golden 
thread  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  the  fabric,  to 
make  the  best,  steadily,  of  what  little  she 
might  have,  to  sink  self  in  service,  and  to  find 
the  wonderful  way  of  life  as  it  is  written  in 
terms  of  self-abandonment — this  lay  before 
her  now. 

And  with  the  golden  thread  to  make  a  literal 
cloth  of  gold — to  transfigure  even  a  gloomy 
fabric  by  the  magic  of  dreams;  to  spread  this 
tapestry  everywhere  within  her  House  of 
Life — to  seek  steadily  for  joy  until  she  de 
served  it,  even  commanded  it — then,  mysteri 
ously,  from  the  far  corners  of  the  earth,  it 
would  come,  as  Chandler  had  said,  and  as  his 
own  life  had  proved. 

Slowly  the  glory  died.  On  flame-bright  hills 
the  last  light  still  lingered,  but  sadly,  as  though 
it  was  never  to  come  again.  A  cold  wind  came 
from  the  east,  where  light  was  born.  Judith 
shivered  a  little,  but  still  stood  there, 
thinking. 

The  afterglow  shone  behind  the  trees,  but 
faintly.  In  the  midst  of  it  was  the  pale  gold 
crescent  of  the  Autumn  moon.  A  star  or  two 
came  out — the  advance  guard  of  that  celestial 


UQbatlaj 

before 
t>et 


374 


H  Weaver  of  Breams 


©n  tbe 

jpatbs  of 

peace 


army  which  was  to  set  the  heavens  ablaze  with 
javelins  of  silver  light. 

Fallen  leaves  murmured,  sending  subtle 
fragrance  afar  into  the  dusk  as  they  drifted 
across  the  road.  A  belated  squirrel  scampered 
madly  across  the  garden  on  his  way  to  his 
home  in  a  hollow  tree,  stirring  a  cricket  to 
shrill  pipings  of  resentment,  which  presently 
ceased. 

"To-night  might  have  been  so  different," 
thought  Judith,  "if — if  it  had  been  meant  to 
be."  Already  her  feet  were  firmly  set  upon 
the  paths  of  peace.  "The  things  that  are 
mine  I  shall  have,"  she  went  on,  to  herself, 
"so  I  '11  wait — and  dream — till  they  come." 

Smiling,  serene,  and  fully  content,  she  turned 
and  went  in — alone. 


THE  END 


A     000818246     1 


